We've A Long Time Together, Me And You

Something happens to me each week at about this same time. Or at least on the weeks when I have any control over the TV programming. Not counting the CSPANiverse and eight home shopping networks, we only get one real cable channel: TLC. And I have found myself irrefutably drawn to one of its simplest yet most voyeuristic shows: Miami Ink.

Maybe it's living in the perpetual safety bubble of pregnancy, but I've developed a brand-new fascination with tattoos. Or more specifically, with getting myself tattooed. I went through my twenties with no interest in the ink. (Of course, I also went through my twenties with no interest in beer. The geekiness knows no bounds.) I am not, by anyone's definition, a rebel. But in the last year or so, I've started giving very serious consideration to what I might want permanently affixed to my body. You know, other than Miss M.

My lifelong hesitations about tattoos come through when I get down to the details. For starters, I feel like I'd have to pick a spot on my body that is at least relatively immune to the forces of gravity. It's hard enough to imagine myself as a tattooed 70-year-old; I can't bear the thought of having to use two hands in order to see my art. I'm also continually flummoxed as to what image I'd use. I guess that's probably the strongest sign that I'm not ready for a tattoo, since I can't easily settle on the design I'd want to carry around for the rest of my life. Although lately, it's not from a lack of ideas, but rather an abundance. I'm constantly looking at everything from Norse goddesses to the native wildflowers of Minnesota and wondering how well they'd translate onto my own skin.

Sure, it's easy to talk big about stabbing a picture onto my body during this period of my life when I absolutely can't do it. I've also spent a lot of time longing to dye my hair Natalie Maines brown and run off into a quiet room with a tray of sushi and an entire bottle of Bordeaux. But I think this craving might actually stick. After delivering two babies, the fear of pain would be nowhere near a factor, and 1.5 pregnancies have already gotten me a lot more comfortable with the ever-fluctuating nature of my body. Or maybe that's what I'm actually rebelling against.