The other filter
I have a tattoo. Don’t tell my mother. I deliberated for three years. What font? What location? I enlisted several of my inked designers’ help in determining the ultimate coolness of my creation.
In July 2002, I was in Key West, Florida celebrating a friend’s 40th birthday when I decided, “what the fuck.” We went to a tattoo parlor on the edge of town and I signed a document declaring I was sober. I really was sober.
I handed the lead artist my idea. He looked at me and smiled. “I’ll have to blow this up on the copier in order to use it as a template.”
After three years of indecision, I went with a writer’s font: good old courier. I had my tattoo in less than 10 minutes and they took a picture of it. “I can’t wait to tell the guys about this one,” my artist said.
My brother, when he first viewed the creation, rolled his eyes and said, “I just don’t know.” I dropped waistline at one of his parties and a few of his suburbanite friends saw it. “Oh my god, that’s hilarious,” was the general consensus.
Last January, I was almost in bed with a man who saw my tattoo. “Oh, wow. I’m Kosher and I don’t believe in tattoos.” He stopped seeing me. I think it had more to do with being an uncreative CPA and less to do about religion. But, that incident made me realize that my tattoo might be a humor filtering agent.
My two words, lowercase and separated by a comma, are starting to fade. Now when my brother hears I have a date, his standard question is, “has he seen the tattoo?” I still have no regrets about the tattoo, but wonder if it will limit my long-term relationship possibilities. It may be fading, my sense of humor isn’t. If they can’t see the beauty in the joke, screw them.