I was having breakfast at my local luncheonette when one of the waitresses, a young college student, showed me an example of a tattoo on her phone. 

“Which color should I get it in?” she asked, “Black or white?” 

I personally don’t care for tattoos and my first impulse was to tell her not to get one. Of course, that would have been a stupid thing to say. “What’s the advantage of one color over another?” I said, instead. Pursing her lips, she said nothing. 

“The white one would be more discrete,” I said. “Not immediately noticeable against your skin. The black one would be more of a statement. Depends on what you’re going for.” 

“It’s a small tattoo,” she said. 

“What is it of?”

“It’s from Harry Potter.” 

Years ago, when I was on a book tour in Portland, Oregon, I met up with a tattoo artist named Jeff Johnson who’d written a very funny and insightful book called Tattoo Machine. A true artist who had a waiting list of people wanting to get inked by him, he was witty, literate and a lot of fun to be around, dispelling many of the judgmental preconceptions I had about people who decorate their bodies. After downing several whiskeys while discussing Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, and Chuck Palahniuk, he told me he’d love to give me a tattoo, but I respectfully declined. Taking my refusal with good grace he said, “They’re not for everybody.” 

“Well,” I told the waitress. “I’d start small. See if you like it.” 

“What do you mean?” Gwen, the senior waitress said. 

“Come again?” 

“You told her to start small. You don’t like tattoos?” 

“Gwen’s tattooed all over,” the younger waitress, said. 

Gwen’s an attractive woman who runs ultra marathons and I’ve known her for nine years, so her inked status was not unknown to me. But, as she stared at me, I knew I’d stepped on a live wire, as if my not liking tattoos would somehow be a rejection of her. 

“Years ago,” I said, “I had a girlfriend with a tattoo of a galloping horse on her back.” 

“Really?” 

“I knew her before she got it and after. It didn’t bother me.” Then I told her about meeting Jeff in Oregon. “He told me something I never forgot; ‘My canvas is skin and every work of art I’ve created will eventually be buried or burned.’’” 

“That’s true,” Gwen, said. 

Returning to my egg sandwich, I hoped I hadn’t upset Gwen. I’d hate her to think I was passing judgment on her. Then again, if you’re going to get tattoos, you have to accept that that some people are not going to like your choice. In 1986, when I told my great aunt I was going to study for the priesthood, she looked at me sourly and said, “What the hell do you want to do that for?” That pissed me off though, in her defense, she was eventually proven 100% correct – but the experience of seminary tattooed my soul, nonetheless. And, when people learn about my former religious status, when they see my hidden ink, they can be very judgmental too. “Are you gay?” some people have said. “Don’t like women? Couldn’t hack it in the real world?” Sometimes they just walked away, repelled by reasons known only to them. 

I’ve also painted myself with ink, but with words on paper.  After twenty years of blogging and two books, much of my life – though not all of it – is an open book. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve met or gotten emails from strangers who feel like they’ve known me most of their lives. Of course, you only see what I want you to see, but what you see is a lot and that has its drawbacks too. Once I publish my thoughts they are forever. There are things I regret writing but, like a tattoo, they’re very hard to remove and the internet has a long memory. One thing’s for sure, if called upon to run for vice-president like another best-selling author, the opposition will have a motherlode of stuff to throw at me. 

Tattooed persons are also often labeled as “attention whores” who demand to be seen, even if you find what they’re showing you offensive. I’ve gotten the same criticism from people regarding my writing as well. While I do mine my personal life for stories and occasionally go off the rails, I can’t think of another writer who hasn’t. And let’s face it, you have to have somewhat of an ego to think people will plunk down money to read your words. But there are people out there who think sharing yourself with the world is just an exercise in narcissism. “Who cares what you think?” I have long resigned myself to the fact I’m not everybody’s cup of tea. 

Settling my bill and leaving a heavy tip as an apology, I got up from my stool and looked at the young waitress as she doodled with a marker in a coloring book. “Some adults find coloring books very therapeutic.” I said. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I have TMJ and grind my teeth at night. I colored for two hours before going to bed last night instead of doom scrolling on my phone.”

Walking out of the luncheonette, I knew every person on earth has been tattooed by life; but the decision to show the world their ink before they were buried or burned was entirely up to them.