The Story Isn’t Over

Last year, as it became clear that any vestige of my former Stepford-wife, mid-Atlantic suburban lifestyle had been thoroughly erased, I often joked that I was going to write a book entitled “Shit I Never Dreamed I’d Be Doing at Sixty”.  Among the highlights: my first booty call, my first Jello shot, my first Brazilian. And, squeaked in just days before my 61st birthday, and the catalyst for this post, my first tattoo.

I’d been thinking about getting a tattoo since the day I drove away from the wreckage of my 25-year marriage with my 14-year-old daughter and a laundry basket full of clothes and books. Early on, I pictured fiery symbols of survival (my favorite: Alice Walker’s “still I rise”, with the addition of the word “motherfucker” and a cobra). Once I’d survived the brunt of the legal and financial attack on me, I thought a little bird in flight might be a nice reminder of my freedom. But I couldn’t decide on a design I wanted to see every day for the rest of my life. Eventually I learned of the semi-colon tattoo, a symbol of hope and inspiration for those dealing with depression and suicidal ideation. A semi-colon indicates that the sentence isn’t finished; that there is more to come. This resonated given my daughter’s journey, but ultimately vanity (which I never thought I suffered from until I began aging), inertia, and my lack of excitement at the thought of someone injecting ink into my skin with needles won out. I was over it.

Until a few weeks ago, when my 20-something son arrived for a long-awaited visit, and one of the first orders of business was matching sibling tattoos for he and the Celtic Warrior Princess. It may have been the celebratory two glasses of wine at lunch, but after initially needing to leave the tattoo parlor for some air (the fluorescent lights, the buzzing noise, the guy who had no unmarked skin left, the girl whose “sleeve” appeared to be bleeding), I announced that I was ready for my tattoo. I’d decided on the semi-colon after all, with the modification of a heart in place of the period.

I’m happy to report that I was brave (OK, it helps that the tattoo is so small that by the time it started to hurt it was finished). And that I absolutely love the result (even before friends pronounced it “cute”, “sexy” and “badass”). But what I love most, even more than the testament to my willingness to take a leap (often known as my impulsivity), is the visual reminder that the story is not over; that living in the moment, with love, is what I’m trying to do.

As always, the universe is happy to provide examples. The daily struggles of the Celtic warrior princess with the soul of an 80-year-old Sicilian farmer; the men in my life; my son’s stumbling toward adulthood; my aging parents’ increasing outrageousness. None of these stories are over.

Also, as someone pointed out to me the other day, it’s the perfect icon for a writer. The story isn’t over, and love saves the day.