"We are like two trees that have grown together; our roots are entwined."
it's not every day you walk into a tattoo parlor and the artist is playing Mozart's Requiem. But that's what happened to my sister and me on Saturday, when we stepped out of the blistering Bakersfield heat and into the air-conditioned loft for touchups.
My mind had been trailing from one thought to another before we got there- the move to England, what's going on when I get back, what I want to blog about next, the drive-thru sushi place we were hitting up after our touchups were finished. That morning I'd just read an article from the Guardian- The Secrets of Long-Term Love- and had loved the stories in it but also thought the author/interviewer had missed the whole point. The article presents six long-term married couples, all vastly differently, all equally happy, then reveals the "secrets" of the couples as if you can tuck them away and save them for later, as if they aren't snowflake-wisdoms, but instead cookie-cutter truths.
Tim, our tattoo artist and an incredible guy, likes to meander in his thoughts, too, and so the three of us mused and philosophized while the requiem played and the tattoo needle hummed along.
"The thing is, there aren't hard-and-fast rules. It'd be easier if there were, but it would also be pretty boring." I said, tightly holding a coffee cup in my hand while Tim worked. It's just a touchup, but it hurts worse for some reason, maybe because it's over scar tissue. I was explaining the article to them, and echoing my late-night phone conversation with a teary best friend I'd had a few nights ago.
"I thought if I worked hard enough- if we both did- we could make it work. And maybe we could have, I don't know. But we wouldn't have been happy. Hard work, wanting it, isn't enough."
"Well if that's true...we're screwed. What's the secret, then?"
"You know those super-smug, just-married couples? They're all like 'you just know when you find the right one.' And you're like. SHUT UP. Well, if you can look past their douchey-ness and their sense of superiority, what if they're right? What if there is no secret formula?"
That night I'd wondered to myself, but didn't express aloud because the topic was depressing enough without this addition, if there actually is a secret but it's not some sappy stupid romcom list. What if the secret is exhaustion. What if it's giving up. You're 32, you're tired, and by now everyone asks if there's a man in your life only out of politeness, they're all starting to give up on you. What if the secret is settling. Because if that's the secret I don't think I'll do it. But if my life is a horror film (and why not, that's my favorite genre), I might be that character that fights really hard but it isn't enough and Settling is the serial killer hiding behind the shower curtain who gets me right before the police arrive.
I didn't confess any of my fears aloud in the tattoo parlor, either. Even though I was committing to a sentence on my foot for eternity, I couldn't bring myself to talk about my commitment issues. Was my getting a tattoo a mask for them? Or an attempt to prove to myself that I can overcome them?
"My one piece of advice to you two- not that you need it- is this: find someone who knows how to love and be loved. Most people know how to do just one or the other, but if you find someone who knows how to do both you'll be way ahead of the game."
I thought about that. How it was good advice from a sensible guy that I trust enough to permanently ink me, not too specific, just esoteric enough. How it was maybe an optimistic alternative to my secret fear. How a person like that might be hard to find but not quite mythic-level impossible.
Is it, like my best friend wondered that night, 'enough'? I'm sure it's not. And that's okay, because we are not complacent enough for enough. I hope we never will be. And forever is either nice or horrifying, but whichever way it's not here right now. Except in the form of lovely, curving script that sits just before my toes, reminding me that even fleeting moments can make their permanent and lovely mark.
it's not every day you walk into a tattoo parlor and the artist is playing Mozart's Requiem. But that's what happened to my sister and me on Saturday, when we stepped out of the blistering Bakersfield heat and into the air-conditioned loft for touchups.
My mind had been trailing from one thought to another before we got there- the move to England, what's going on when I get back, what I want to blog about next, the drive-thru sushi place we were hitting up after our touchups were finished. That morning I'd just read an article from the Guardian- The Secrets of Long-Term Love- and had loved the stories in it but also thought the author/interviewer had missed the whole point. The article presents six long-term married couples, all vastly differently, all equally happy, then reveals the "secrets" of the couples as if you can tuck them away and save them for later, as if they aren't snowflake-wisdoms, but instead cookie-cutter truths.
Tim, our tattoo artist and an incredible guy, likes to meander in his thoughts, too, and so the three of us mused and philosophized while the requiem played and the tattoo needle hummed along.
"The thing is, there aren't hard-and-fast rules. It'd be easier if there were, but it would also be pretty boring." I said, tightly holding a coffee cup in my hand while Tim worked. It's just a touchup, but it hurts worse for some reason, maybe because it's over scar tissue. I was explaining the article to them, and echoing my late-night phone conversation with a teary best friend I'd had a few nights ago.
"I thought if I worked hard enough- if we both did- we could make it work. And maybe we could have, I don't know. But we wouldn't have been happy. Hard work, wanting it, isn't enough."
"Well if that's true...we're screwed. What's the secret, then?"
"You know those super-smug, just-married couples? They're all like 'you just know when you find the right one.' And you're like. SHUT UP. Well, if you can look past their douchey-ness and their sense of superiority, what if they're right? What if there is no secret formula?"
That night I'd wondered to myself, but didn't express aloud because the topic was depressing enough without this addition, if there actually is a secret but it's not some sappy stupid romcom list. What if the secret is exhaustion. What if it's giving up. You're 32, you're tired, and by now everyone asks if there's a man in your life only out of politeness, they're all starting to give up on you. What if the secret is settling. Because if that's the secret I don't think I'll do it. But if my life is a horror film (and why not, that's my favorite genre), I might be that character that fights really hard but it isn't enough and Settling is the serial killer hiding behind the shower curtain who gets me right before the police arrive.
I didn't confess any of my fears aloud in the tattoo parlor, either. Even though I was committing to a sentence on my foot for eternity, I couldn't bring myself to talk about my commitment issues. Was my getting a tattoo a mask for them? Or an attempt to prove to myself that I can overcome them?
"My one piece of advice to you two- not that you need it- is this: find someone who knows how to love and be loved. Most people know how to do just one or the other, but if you find someone who knows how to do both you'll be way ahead of the game."
I thought about that. How it was good advice from a sensible guy that I trust enough to permanently ink me, not too specific, just esoteric enough. How it was maybe an optimistic alternative to my secret fear. How a person like that might be hard to find but not quite mythic-level impossible.
Is it, like my best friend wondered that night, 'enough'? I'm sure it's not. And that's okay, because we are not complacent enough for enough. I hope we never will be. And forever is either nice or horrifying, but whichever way it's not here right now. Except in the form of lovely, curving script that sits just before my toes, reminding me that even fleeting moments can make their permanent and lovely mark.