My Virgin Hands

Don't worry, it's not what you think.

There is seldom a secret that my mom and I keep from each other. And maybe that’s why writing my first newsletter about a secret trip to get a secret tattoo feels so appealing?

I’m sitting here on a Sunday night waiting for our podcast to export. This takes up to two hours, overheats my computer and often stalls out. I like to think it’s my computer taking time to listen to our podcast, pausing to laugh with us. Or maybe it is trying to stall so I’ll change my mind and not upload it.

“Well, are you free Thursday for that phone meeting?” my mom asks me 10 minutes ago on the phone.

“No, no. I already told you I’m unavailable all day Thursday and Friday.”

She doesn’t ask questions. For once. Thank god.

I bet you’re DYING to know what I am doing on Thursday and Friday. DYING! Biting at the bit! Is that the saying?

Well, this is your lucky paragraph. I am driving to the Big Apple to get my hands tattooed. Yeah, you read that right. My hands.

I just heard my mom screaming from miles away. She doesn’t know I’m doing this, nor am I allowing her to read this before I publish.

This is a huge concern for both of us. For her, it’s her deep fear that I am writing a newsletter full of swear words and hot political takes. For me, it’s that she’s my editor. There are going to be a lot of grammatical errors in this one.

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a farewell photo of my “virgin hands” at the last supper taken by my friend Ashley

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I want you to close your eyes.

Wait, open them, I forgot this is a reading platform.

Pretend you’re hitting STOP on your VCR then the FF button for about 30 seconds as we skip ahead to the future, where my hands are tattooed and stories have ensued. Ok, now, PLAY!

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Well, I told her. Actually the day before it happened. Do you remember when I said there is seldom a secret between us? Ugh. I fell weak to her singular question. “What are you up to tomorrow?”

While I could sit here and bring you deep into the depths of my mind, my reasoning, my desire to make a choice solely for myself, I will wrap this up with a note to her.

Mom,

While you exclaimed “I hate tattoos” through our unstable FaceTime yesterday, I saw a glimmer of “I’m proud of you” in your eyes.

You have the curse of being a woman who stands firmly true in who you are – You’ve taught me to do the same.

Soon, these tattoos, too, will grow on you. Just like the first one. You’ll see them as an extension of me. They will mark a time of transition and grow wrinkly with me as I age and discover more about myself. Just like you now. No offense.

Don’t worry, I will never let a tattoo gun near my face.

Love you,

Hil

P.S. I have 5 houses for sale on my hand. The market is hot!

P. P. S.. I sent her this newsletter early so I accidentally lied above. She did edit it. Can you tell?

P.P.P.S. Have you listened to our newest podcast yet? Listen here: