Thinking about getting inked? For years, the idea of getting a tattoo was something floating in the back of my mind. I’d see people with incredible art on their skin and admire the commitment and self-expression. But actually going through with it? That felt like a different story. Like many, I had a lot of questions, especially when I started considering placement. And yes, at one point, the idea of an Ass Tattoo crossed my mind. It’s a bold choice, no doubt, and one that comes with its own set of considerations.
My journey to finally getting tattooed wasn’t initially about my backside, but it did lead me to understand the realities of getting inked in a… let’s say, more sensitive area. I had been working through a complex idea for a while – let’s call it my “personal symbol” – and I made a pact with myself: if I ever truly solidified its meaning, I’d get it tattooed. Well, the meaning solidified. So, tattoo it was.
Before I booked my appointment, I did what most people do: I talked to friends who had tattoos. The descriptions were always pretty tame: “a little sting,” “like scratching,” “a slight burning sensation.” Armed with these reassuring (or so I thought) descriptions, I booked my session at Leviticus in Minneapolis (seriously, a fantastic shop). My friend Clifton, who’s a pro there, was set to do the honors.
Lying down on the table that day, face down and ready, I was picturing a manageable, slightly uncomfortable experience. I planned to zone out with some music and maybe some mental meditation. “Slight burning sensation,” right?
Wrong.
The reality was… intense. It wasn’t a “slight burning sensation.” It felt more like a hot, sharp razor was meticulously carving into my skin. My immediate reaction was, “Abort! Abort!” This was way beyond what I had mentally prepared for. But could I really stop? The outline was already there, and quitting felt… well, wimpy. What would my friends think? What about the cool artists at Leviticus who seemed unfazed by the process?
No, quitting wasn’t an option. I had to power through.
About ten minutes into what felt like an eternity, I had to call for a break. “Cliff,” I said, “I seriously underestimated this. My respect for anyone with tattoos just went through the roof.” I needed a moment to mentally regroup and reconcile the reality with my expectations.
I started questioning my own pain tolerance. I’ve always prided myself on having a high pain threshold. I used to run marathons and even ultra-marathons, pushing myself to the absolute limit. I had that “bring-it-on” mentality when it came to physical challenges. But in those situations, the pain had a purpose. In races, it was about pushing for a personal best or achieving a goal.
But what was the purpose of this pain? To get a tattoo. And honestly, whatever allure tattoos held for other people, I wasn’t feeling it in that moment. I thought a tattoo might be “kind of cool,” enough to endure a “slight burning sensation.” But this… this hot razor carving? Was “kind of cool” really worth it?
All that was left was pride. But even that felt flimsy. Why should I care if strangers thought I was tough?
Just as I was in this motivational crisis, Cliff mentioned we should get back to it if we wanted to finish in one session. As I reluctantly positioned myself back on the table, the absurdity of the situation hit me. “This is utterly absurd!” I thought.
And in that absurdity, I found my motivation. Yes, it was absurd to endure this for a tattoo, especially one that, let’s be honest, might not always be on display depending on placement (and clothing choices!). But maybe that was the point. Maybe it was time to break from the routine, the perfectly reasonable monotony, and do something utterly, wonderfully absurd. Maybe it was about proving to myself that I could handle it, that I was stronger than the pain.
I swapped out my calming music for Slipknot. Sorry, spiritual contemplation, but this was a Slipknot moment. Headphones up, a sugary candy in my mouth, I gave Cliff a wry smile and said, “Bring it on.”
It wasn’t instant, and it wasn’t constant, but something shifted. That familiar feeling of being stronger than the pain started to creep in. Was it still intensely uncomfortable? Absolutely. Did it still feel like a searing razor at times? Yep. But the “bring-it-on” attitude, fueled by the sheer absurdity of it all, was enough to get me through the remaining two hours and fifteen minutes.
Now that I have my tattoo, permanently etched, I can honestly say I’m glad I was a bit naive about the pain. If I had known exactly what it would feel like, I might have backed out. But now that it’s done… well, I have to admit, there’s a tiny sense of badassery that comes with it. And maybe, just maybe, that little bit of absurdity was exactly what I needed.
Next post: I’ll explain the meaning behind my tattoo and why I chose this particular design.
