I am not a huge fan of body art. As gravity takes its toll, I fear that a picture or phrase that starts in my upper arm would, over time, flow southward into a pileup of flesh by my wrist. I’ve worn temporary tattoos for occasions — only to find that the manufacturer and I have different definitions of ‘temporary.’
I got a henna tattoo at a party in November 2006, a few days before my surprise Thanksgiving wedding. The artist assured me it was a traditional, floral design favored by Southeast Asian brides. It was all but invisible by the time I introduced the mystery guest at our Thanksgiving table as the reverend who would pronounce us husband and wife. It’s the one time I wished that body art had lasted just a few days longer.
But permanent ink? I don’t think I could make such a commitment. If forced, however, to inscribe an inky epitaph upon my skin, it would be, ‘She tries.’ Because I do. I try. Every day.
I try to do my best. To live the values I profess. To avoid being a hypocrite. I try to find humor in the world and help others get in on the joke. I try. To be a better me, mother, wife and friend. Success is not guaranteed – but it can’t be achieved if you don’t even try. So, I try. And I fail. And I try again. She always tries.