The tattoo gun’s humming was more entertaining than painful. Considering what was going on, it was an odd feeling.
My 75-year-old shoulder was going to be indelibly inscribed with a lovely blue heron, its wings spread as if it were going to take to the sky.
It was a dream that would last a lifetime, a small protest against the encroaching sense of “shouldn’ts” that appeared to accompany aging.
However, my joy was fleeting as I saw the artist perform his magic. My daughter Sarah’s look might have curdled milk when she burst in. She yelled, “Mom, what are you doing?” Mark, her spouse, lumbered in after her, his expression contorted in a way that I could only interpret as disgust.
“Getting a tattoo,” I said, attempting to sound casual. “You know, like the kind all the cool kids get?”
Sarah’s mouth tightened. “Awesome children, Mom? You’re 75 years old.”
“Seventy-five and fabulous,” I shot back, hoping that my fake smile would hold. I was trying to talk them into letting me wear a shorter skirt, and it felt like I was back in high school. Even at seventy-five, I was still struggling for the right to express myself a little.
Sarah went on, her tone softening a little, “But Mom, what were you thinking? You know, tattoos are for young people.”
Mark spoke out, his tone rough. “Yeah, it’s not exactly like reading glasses or a comfortable pair of shoes, is it?”
Their comments pierced more deeply than a needle could. Hot and unwanted shame filled my cheeks. All I got was criticism for finally living a little and pursuing a dream of mine.
But as soon as it did, I felt a wave of defiance come over me. This was not their dream, nor was it their body. This was mine, and I was not going to allow them to take away my joy.
“I’m contemplating living my life, Mark,” I stated in an unexpectedly assertive tone. “This isn’t an error, and this isn’t your body to beautify. It’s a festivity.” Stunned into stillness, they turned to face me. Even though it was a minor win, I felt good about holding my ground.
The solitude was unbearable that weekend. There were fewer calls between Sarah and Mark, shorter visits, and tense conversations when they did speak. Our Sunday dinner together, which was normally a happy occasion full of pointed looks and uncomfortable silences, turned into a forced affair. It was as though a wall had grown between us, constructed with their disdain.
But I choose to take it as a springboard rather than letting it break me. I refused to apologize for being alive. I was actually planning to go all in.
I got to work on my research. The lively older women at the park who practiced tai chi always impressed me, but I found it a bit too elegant. However, I was captivated by yoga. My computer screen was loaded with pictures of strong, composed bodies striking stances that looked unattainable for someone my age. It seemed like an attempt to overcome expectations and time constraints.
I finally found a senior-only yoga class after considerable searching. When I signed up online, I was a little anxious. Would they make fun of the elderly woman who was no longer even able to touch her toes? However, my need to disprove both them and myself was stronger.
My heart pounded a tattoo on my ribs as I entered the studio that first morning—a humorous thought that made me smile a little. Everybody there was so young and nimble, bending their bodies into shapes that were not possible. It was like I was in a ballet class, a giraffe.
But Sarah, the instructor, greeted me warmly, a woman with a shock of silver hair flashing through her magenta mane and a lovely grin. The other students were as friendly; they were a mix of men and women in their sixties and seventies. They went to stretch, breathe, and discover their own inner zen rather than to compete.
The first session was a flurry of trembling warrior stances and swaying dogs gazing downward. My body, accustomed to a life spent in the kitchen and gardens, expressed disapproval in several ways. But as I struck a posture, beads of sweat trickling down my brow, I experienced an unanticipated feeling of pride. I was trying, even though it wasn’t ideal.
Weeks became months, and the yoga class became my haven. Not only were there obvious physical benefits—my back discomfort had long since subsided—but there were other advantages as well. It has to do with the group of people I met there. These were folks who didn’t mind making fun of themselves, who took pride in their little accomplishments, and who didn’t allow becoming older define them.
Sarah and Mark paid me a surprise visit one bright afternoon. My initial impulse was to cover up my tattoo, which was a foolish idea given that it was prominently visible on my shoulder. But Sarah did it before me. Her gaze grew wide as they settled on the blue heron, and I briefly prepared myself for more criticism.
Her response, though, was completely unanticipated. With a real smile on her face, she cried, “Grandma, it’s beautiful!” “You look like a rockstar!”
Mark, though, did not waver. His expression was unreadable as he glanced at the tattoo and then at me. He whispered, “Interesting,” at the end.
Sarah introduced me to a woman she’d brought along, Sarah the yoga instructor, before the conversation could become awkward once more. She looked much younger than her years, with laugh wrinkles around her eyes and a bright pink streak in her hair.
My daughter Sarah said, “We were just talking about your yoga class.” “Apparently, you’re quite the star pupil, Mom.”
A mixture of pride and humiliation flooded my cheeks. “Oh, well,” I stammered, attempting to sidestep.
However, Sarah, the teacher, moved forward, speaking in a kind and cordial tone. “That’s absurd! For all the students in the class, you are an inspiration. While we’re fretting over our aching knees, you’re effortlessly striking poses.”
For the first time, Mark smiled. “She has consistently been a recalcitrant individual,” he remarked, sounding slightly amused.
It went unexpectedly smoothly in the afternoon. During her presentation of the advantages of yoga for senior citizens, Sarah, the instructor, made us all laugh with her jokes and anecdotes. Mark even appeared curious as he inquired about the various yoga poses and techniques.
By the time they left, a significant amount of the fog had lifted. Even Mark seemed to have softened his views, and Sarah seemed genuinely interested in my new activity. His eyes were still a little hesitant, but it was curiosity rather than judgment.
I woke up the following morning with a sore hip (downward-facing dogs are tougher than they look!), but I also felt lighter inside. My tattoo was a sign as well as an artwork on my body. It stood for defying ageism, living life independently, and discovering happiness in unlikely places.
And perhaps, just possibly, it had come to represent my family as well. Perhaps my small gesture of disobedience had started a discussion or caused them to change their viewpoint. Perhaps, just perhaps, my blue heron was encouraging others to extend their own wings and soar as well as taking flight on my shoulder.
