About six months ago, I decided to get a tattoo. I think I gave my grandmother a heart attack as she pictured me inking a sleeve when I told her. I found a eco-friendly parlor nearby (the place was so sterile you could smell the cleaning solutions down the street) and went with a good friend.
What’s the story? (Pun Point for me! bahaha)
There were multiple reasons for this word. Here are 3 of them, from least to the actual reason why I submitted myself to a jack-hammer needle:
1. I love stories. I wrap myself in them like I would a snuggly blanket on a pumpkin-spice hot chocolate autumn evening. I love writing them. I will never lose my love for them, even if Denver is hit with a freak -100 degree April snow storm and our heating goes out and I lose both my hands due to frostbite because we couldn’t burn our furniture fast enough.
2. It fits perfectly into my worldview. Explaining would take up the next three blog posts, so I won’t.
3. Losing sight of hope is easy to do when you’re in the middle of the worst chronic pain. Sometimes I need to be reminded pain is part of the bigger Story, that pain isn’t for nothing. That there’s hope. Sometimes I need to see this reminder.
So I inked Story on my wrist in a font the hubster designed.
I’m happy with my decision.
Do you have any tattoos?