I'm inked.

Last night I experienced the most painful two hours of my life. When I told my mother this her response was "you've obviously never birthed a child." Uhh, well, no, I actually haven't. And if it's worse than a tattoo I don't think I ever will. Ok, I'm being dramatic. It hurt like an S.O.B., but in a few weeks I'll be over it and re-evaluate all major life decisions I made based on last night.

Getting "inked" (I'm a gangster so I will use that term freely) is unlike any pain. It's hard to describe. To a fellow woman, I would say it's similar to cutting yourself shaving in the shower and having a constant stream of water run into the cut. Over and over and over and OVER again. For two hours. It didn't resemble bee stings to me, and it surely felt nothing like a needle, so I don't know how else to describe it. To a man, I don't know what to say because you guys are tough and feel no pain so it may be like a tickle to you. I have quite a high tolerance for pain. I love getting pierced and waxed (too much information? Sorry.), but getting inked (is it weird I creep smile when I type that as though I'm soooooooo funny?) was not okay. Nearing the end of two hours I started to cry. It was so far from enjoyable, and my so-called "endorphins" did NOT kick in after five minutes like promised by the artist. I felt the needle the ENTIRE time.

I especially felt the needle when it started making a weird sound that wasn't weird to me, but made the artist say "that's a new sound..." Excuse me? No new sounds, thanks. We want regular, I-hear-it-all-the-time-everyday sounds. She tells me my skin has toughened and the needle is bouncing rather than going into my skin. WTF? I attribute this tough skin to tanning all the time. Why is the hockey game on in the background? What if they score and she gets excited and inks a line down my side? What if she's paying too close attention to the game and I end up with a Canucks logo on my side? These thoughts do not make this process any easier, btw.

For two hours I was squeezing Mexican's hand with all my strength. Unknowingly, of course. Afterwards she tells me I have insane upper body strength and she's surprised her fingernails are still attached to her fingers. I honestly didn't know I was clinging so tightly until I relaxed [momentarily] in between...words? Letters? Probably not even letters, it felt like the same letter for two hours. I appreciate her tolerance with me. Had she not been there my ink would be something along the lines of the letter 'e' and 'l', and that's it.

Finally she's done. She calls me a trooper (do people not generally get a big script that takes two hours on one of the most sensitive parts of their body for their first tattoo? I guess not.) and I look in the mirror. I love it. I adore it. It's beautiful and everything I thought it would be. After I get home I was convinced the whole thing was on an angle, but I'm hoping it was my neuroticism, or my eyesight.

My sleep was terrible. I'd rather have stomping children running above me than have to sleep on my back or my left side (I'm a right side sleeper), but I was slightly paranoid that it would rub off. I guess in my head I had endured that pain for a stick-on tattoo, not a permanent marking on my body. Permanent. That's a scary thought.

This morning I had to peel off the clear wrap that she put on it to keep it clean. It felt similar to what I feel slowly peeling a stuck on band-aid off of your upper, inner thigh that is about the size of an 8"x11" piece of paper would feel like. It took me five minutes to get it off because I was convinced that every word was going to come off with the plastic. I'm not paranoid at all.

Now it's bumpy and sore-looking, but I still feel like walking around with a belly shirt on so I can show it off. Ok, I would never do that, my love for waxing pain was enough sharing for today. I am, however, happy to report I will not be one of those people that will become addicted to getting inked. My grandparents will be happy to hear that.

*Books appointment for next tattoo*