Hello and happy Thursday. This is my third attempt at writing this post, but I just figured I have little to do today, and it’s been enough time already for me to talk about it.
No, I’m not telling you about a traumatic experience, but hopefully if you read this, you’ll learn something. This wasn’t my first tattoo and I don’t think it’s going to be the last one I get, also I wasn’t like eighteen and drunk. No, I was twenty-four and pretty sober.
I had in the past made fun of my sister who’d gotten a tattoo that was meant to spell her ex’s boyfriend in Hebrew. I had vowed to myself that I would never get a “bad” tattoo, aka a misspelled tattoo. Hell, my first tattoo was my own name in Hebrew and I’d checked with both my parents, who are able to read the language, just to make sure I got the right thing inked.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a great emotionally when I got this bad tattoo. It had been almost three weeks since I’d gotten home from my first trip to Baltimore and I was feeling a little purposeless without a job and all the major changes in my life suddenly becoming a reality. I was also bored, and decided that what I needed was getting new tattoos. Here’s a piece of advice I hope you keep for the rest of your existence: don’t make a decision you might regret just because you feel bored at the moment.
I got a tattoo on my wrist in a foreign language that makes absolutely no sense because I got one of the two words wrong. It’s not even that the word is misspelled, the spelling is correct, but the meaning is not. And the worst part is that I wasn’t the first to realize this, my mom was, the same night I got the tattoo.
Oddly enough, I haven’t been as mortified as I was by that. I honestly thought I wasn’t going to sleep, and given my obsessive tendencies I thought my life would be reduced to nothing because I had a bad tattoo. I was surprisingly resilient, though, and I’ve progressively been dreading less the fact that yes, I have a bad tattoo. I’m a very transparent person and for some reason there are things I just can’t hide or lie about, so when I’m asked how many tattoos I have, I say eleven, even though I want to get rid of one of them.
I could make a post showing you how I cover my tattoo. It’s pretty simple, but I think it can be useful. If you’d like to see it, let me know in the comments. Yes, I cover my tattoo every single day right after I get out of the shower. I know the bandage is noticeable and I know some people are curious about it, and I know if they asked I’d tell them the story. I’d probably laugh, too.
Right now I’m waiting to move to Baltimore and to become financially stable so that I can get it removed with laser. I’m hoping that by then the tattoo is “ready” because I’ve read you need to have had it for a minimum of three months. I’m not sure if I’m getting the entire tattoo removed or only the bad part, nor if I’d like to get the correct word inked afterwards; it’s not like I’m dealing with whiteout and a black pen here, but actual tattoos.
Don’t forget to tell me in the comments whether you’d like to see how I cover up my bad tattoo, and also let me know if you have a similar story because I’d love to know about it.
Love, Miss Camila