I’m a wreck over it, seriously. This is the stuff midlife crises are made of. When your baby sister gets married in an ostentatiously arty, wholly original, and beautiful way, and you’re in your 30s and you’re feeling kind of lost and frantic and alone, well. It takes a toll on a girl is all I’m saying.
My baby-baby sister and I are in a disagreement about whose idea it was to get matching tattoos (Russell did the thing, we designed it. He’s cool), but I think it was mine, because I was making a joke, sort of, and was surprised that they were so enthusiastic about the notion. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about tattoos, about how I’ve always kind of fancied them and wanted one, but how I’ve never been able to pull the trigger, as they say. “But it’s permanent!” was always my thought.
The babiest sister, she’s 22, already had a tattoo. I’ll leave the story to her to tell, but our father is fond of saying, “Tattoos are permanent proof of temporary insanity.”
I like to think of it as permanent proof of our last week as unmarried sisters.
Wait a second! Three sisters?! Why four dots?
We have a brother, too. He’s after me, almost 30, and then the two girls, 24 and 22. We called them “The Little Girls” growing up.
The circles represent each of us. My super pomo feminist sister didn’t take her hubby’s name, so we’re all still Lines, hence the line connecting the circles. The shaded circle is birth order. The eyebrow (I like to call it a parenthesis) is above my circle and represents Child. We can update the tat as we each spawn, and if our brother decides to join our indelible family mark, we added him, even though our original conception of the tat was without him because we are fairly certain he will not get the tattoo.
And I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that I will be getting more tattoos. I am planning salad mushrooms on my shoulders by mid 2013. And many more after that. By my 40th birthday, I would like radish bunches on my chest.
Being tattooed was one of the weirdest/coolest sensations of my life. I’m sad I didn’t start sooner. Sort of.
Another weird sensation last week was Child’s first bleeding head wound.
I was a wreck about that, too.
We were in Baltimore. The wedding was at Load of Fun Gallery‘s graffiti alley, so one of the days leading up to it, we took a little walk down to inner harbor along Pratt St., and Child thought it would be a fun idea to climb on this sculpture.
About 20 seconds after I snapped that pic, she slid down, and knocked her head on that edge of white.
About 60 seconds after that, her skull blood was on my hands, and my gut went into knots and I instantly had a vision that I’d be carrying a woozy, 50-lb baby girl around Baltimore in search of a hospital, begging them to just make sure she doesn’t die because dying is against the rules.
But that’s the kind of luck we have.
All was well, however. I watched her for dizziness and passing out. She could correctly identify how many fingers I held up. And later that day, she fought sleep as hard as she ever does. It’s still tender, but she only complains about it when she wants to avoid going to sleep.
And so ends the first post from an emotionally intense week.
Anybody else want to share head injury stories? That’s what the comments is for.