Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

So, are you gonna get a tattoo for your daughter?

I’ve paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $800 to be written on permanently. I’ve spent what would be the equivalent of a day’s work sitting in various artists’ chairs, smelling that antiseptic aroma you should always smell when getting inked up, listening to the drone of a needle as it etched things I wanted to keep sacred on my skin. I've done this to pay homage, and now, for the first time, I just feel sort of done with it. You'd think the birth of my first child would be a tattoo no-brainer—especially considering I'm seven deep already—but it's not.

I always said that I would stop getting tattoos when I had found whatever it is I was looking for. Of the seven I have, more than a few can be attributed to the need to pick myself up out of some mood or other. I like tattoos regardless of mood, but can say honestly that the intent of some of these scrawlings probably falls somewhere in the vicinity of self-mutilation.

I’m loath to say I regret getting any of the tattoos I have; partially because that would be an admission of the knuckleheadery of youth and partly because it’s just not true. I like my tattoos. I’m less thrilled with their placement. Tattoos I can see at any given moment tickle me much less than they used to. When I wanted to make certain kinds of pronouncements to myself and others, they were perfect. But now that the nature of pronouncement has changed, now that I’ve gotten a bit more circumspect with what I offer to the world in the way of personal presentation, a few tattoos just seem out of place. When I reach or stretch or type, I notice my left forearm; I see the appendage of a dude I’m not quite in sync with anymore. Even worse, there are times when I look at other similarly-tattooed people and wonder: What the hell were we thinking?

To give some credence to the knucklehead trope, I can say my theory was half right: Having landed on the path I’m on, I don’t necessarily feel compelled to hit the parlor as I once did. What I didn’t know then is that the person who no longer feels compelled to add to this array would be less-than-pumped about the collection of art on his left forearm.

I’m just a different cat now. I have a few moments where, admittedly, I feel cool and dig my work—don’t let anyone lie to you: the “cool” factor is a lot of the appeal—but increasingly, I feel like the dude holding some other dude’s tattoos until that other guy gets back. Whatever my headspace was previously, my current state of mind doesn’t lend itself to visible tattoos. My shoulders and upper arms? Cool. But as I’ve begun to frown upon opportunities for people who don’t know me like that to know me like that, I’ve begun mulling what to do.

All things considered, the decision seems to fall between three absurd options:

Option I: Remove the work.

Even typing that was dreadful. To remove a tattoo after many a harangue as to why I would never even consider such a move would be…a betrayal of a person I no longer am and really have little allegiance to on a certain level. It’s akin to being in a loveless relationship; the ink isn’t hurting me per se, but we’re definitely not connecting like we used to. So really, it’s not much of a betrayal but I couldn’t stand the heckling that I would have to endure from myself or others. And it’s expensive. And lasers hurt.

Option II: Say screw it and finish a whole sleeve.

This doesn’t seem so bad considering I don’t plan on being a CPA or anything. I feel like I’ll probably try to run with this writer/artist (ha!) thing as long as I can. I feel pretty confident about being able to parlay anything I do that might be considered outside the mainstream as merely the routine of the “edgy and artistic.” If I should want to go legit, there are certain problems that the magic of long-sleeved shirts can fix. The problem with turning a tattoo you would like to move elsewhere into a giant tattoo that stretches from wrist to shoulder is turning a tattoo you would like to move elsewhere into a giant tattoo that stretches from wrist to shoulder. That idea is offensively stupid and is, in reality, the leanings of a person I no longer am. Yet, for whatever reason, it remains a viable option.

Option III: Upgrade my cool.

This isn’t exactly exciting. I mean, I care about my cool insofar as not coming off like a complete tool, but upgrading cool takes all kinds of work, and I’m not one of those people who could effortlessly pull off “cool but not trying too hard.” The people I know who can pull that off are actually people who are cool but not trying too hard. They’ll be hip no matter what the circumstance in their life. Quick example: My buddy Kelechi is probably the best dressed guy I know. Dude never takes that long but always looks put together. Anyway, when we were in middle school, Kelechi was fond of a pair of white Nautica sweatpants. One day, a blue pen exploded in the pocket of said pants, effectively ruining them. Except Kelechi wore those sweats like they were new and I’ll be damned if he didn’t pull it off. He just made the stain irrelevant. Now, Kelechi’s the kind of guy who will look cool and hip pushing a stroller and wiping baby vomit off his shoulder. I am not that guy. I lack the dexterity or patience to pull off such a maneuver which leaves my forearm to say “Yup, I was 19 once.”

Will I get a tattoo for my daughter? I don’t know. Old Jon would have. But old Jon isn’t going to be a dad. I am.

I think there’s something about aging in all this. To be fair, it’s more a "place in life" thing than an age thing because I have a few years before I can classify myself as old without being laughed at heartily. The shorthand for this is maturation, but I’ve always found that mildly irritating as it sort of connotes a preceding runny-nosed petulance which, at times, isn’t completely fair.

While I wouldn’t say my self-awareness has changed much—I’m sadly cerebral in that way—I would say I’ve become more openly circumspect. Less is more; the things I hold dear, the things I hold sacred are spoken of little if at all. This may seem misleading considering the subject matter of this very blog, but I’d submit that the things I truly cherish about what I discuss will likely never see themselves spilled across your screen. I draw my lines differently now. In fact, I’m not so sure I draw my lines differently as much as I’m seeing more and more clearly what they are and where they are.

New lines, deeper than ink.

Odds Facts: The odds an adult has a tattoo are 1 in 7.14. Of those with tattoos, 1 in 6.25 ever regret getting them, while 1 in 1.19 report that they never regret it. The odds someone who regrets getting a tattoo regrets it because it’s in a bad location are 1 in 8.33.

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