Tattoo Me

When you’re not even close to being a millennial (and in fact you’re closer to being classified as a boomer), tattoo culture is still foreign.

As a older Gen-X’er, I’m too old to get a tattoo (don’t argue with me). At 51, I think it would look mid-life crisisey (and thereby reveal to the world that I am having a mid-life crisis). I certainly don’t wanna be the gray-haired guy with a new Harley whose friends snicker behind his back when the busty blond climbs on the bike. Dignity please.

And I don’t want my kids to get tattoos too early or maybe ever. If I got one now, I think I’d be opening those floodgates for those teenagers. I know they’re likely get them sometime, but I just would like their body-altering choices to be mature choices and not the Halo logo.

Oh and I’m Jewish. There’s a long history of Judaism looking sideways at any body-altering (save for male circumcision). And the ethos against tattoos was imprinted on modern day Jews with Hitler’s forced marking of Holocaust victims. I cringe at thinking my mythical tattoo might be seen by a survivor.

But oh… I want a tattoo. I’m fascinated by them. I’m attracted to people with them. I am actually turned on by them.

So, what’s a pragmatic, responsible, almost-divorced, mother of two to do? Fake tattoos, obvi.

It’s a regular thing with me now — two week tattoos. I’m getting better at the application, and I like some companies more than others. I get that it’s kind of a chicken shit solution and my kids think it’s lame (natch), but I really enjoy revealing my faux-too to someone who thinks they know me or watching the slight shock of the stranger when they catch a glimpse of it.

Chasing youth to be sure, but I’m only human…

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