Tattoo or two?

Tattoo or two?

I have to confess, I like a tattoo.

People are always surprised when I express my comments about a tattoo, and I admit to being a proud owner of a couple pieces of body art. Apparently, I am not the type. I always ask why I am not, and I get back the usual – ‘you just don’t seem the type’ – in response.

Very well, I can’t help that. Jog on.

I do like a tattoo or two, though. I do.

There is something rebellious about having a tattoo. It can be seen more as a wee life crisis than an attitude thing for a middle-aged guy like myself. For me, it is an attitude thing, trust me, but oh how to explain.

Why the feck should I have to, though – see, I just proved that it is an attitude thing.

Anyway, I want another tattoo to make it three. I have one half-sleeve on the left arm, and I now want another half sleeve on the right. When the first one was done, I had committed that I would get to the gym more and get some element of fitness back. It was the personal price to be paid for the pain and the investment. This was a justification for getting it done, and it was to be the trigger to get me more active.

Confession time.

I failed on that front.

I did not meet the commitment and remained at an unhealthily poor level with my fitness. Be clear here though, I am not at death’s door, and I do keep actively fit, but I wanted the tattoo to spur me onto a level of fitness I had in my youth. That will not happen because that person was about thirty-five years ago, and bodies change, and you have to accept that.

‘But that is an excuse, and you said you would be committed to fitness the last time you got your tattoo.’

That sentence above in BOLD was the response from my partner – who associates tattoos with gangsters!! A long story cut short, she grew up in a city in China and, well, Levi jeans and tattoos were the images given to the rebellious character within the literature at that time.

I always buy Levi jeans.

‘Why don’t you promise yourself rather than make a commitment?’

Another cracker of a cutting sentence delivered with perfect timing.

‘I have no problem with the tattoo. I quite like them now that I get used to it, but you keep making a commitment that you don’t keep, and that’s not like you – maybe you should make a personal promise.’

Damn, this lady is good.

She is right. A promise is so much more severe than a commitment. A promise is a more personal contract and can haunt you to the end of days… apparently.

‘If you make the promise to get fitter and then if you don’t, then you are going to have two tattooed arms and a gut-belly staring back at you every morning to remind you about a broken promise, are you going to be able to live with that?’

Sh*t. She never stops with the insightful comments.

‘So make a promise and hold yourself to that higher standard and get yourself back into the gym – you will be happier.’

Ok, so I am committed to the promise I have made about the tattoo and the gym, fitness thing.

‘That is half arsing it. You said you learned from that movie actor that we shouldn’t half-arse things in life.’

Quoting Matthew McConaughey at me…. where doe this end?

Note to self: remind me not to listen to audiobooks together as the lady remembers everything.

Ok, I promise.

‘Say it like you mean it.’

I promise to go to the gym up to and beyond getting my final tattoo, and I promise to get fighting fit in the process.

She made me write down details with goals and stuff.

I am not sure I will ever look at a tattoo and appreciate the innocent beauty again because now I know that every piece of body art tells a story.

With a broad smile, I made the promise because I am committed to my story.