Indelible ink

I got my first tattoo at 21. I'd wanted one for years, and I was pretty sure I wanted one of an Egyptian symbol. No, I'm not Egyptian, but I'd been fascinated with Egyptology since I was a kid (still am), and, not being a butterflies and hearts kind of girl, it seemed the logical choice.

I'll admit, many of my friends at that time were getting tattoos like some people get flyers in their mailbox. It was still sort of alternative, kind of cool, something bikers did far more than 20 something girls who wore Doc Martens and stayed up late writing English papers. But the lurking idea, the germ of an inky committment, had, as its impetus, like so many decisions do at 21, a boy.

Specifically, a boy I had loved who loved tattoos and who now loved someone else. So what's a girl to do? I'll show him, I thought - I'll finally get that tattoo. I'll admit the thought process may have been somewhat compromised by Halifax's legendary draught wars. So, drawing in one hand and friend for moral support in the other, off I went. And it turned out perfectly. Granted, half of it had disappeared 7 years later thanks to the use of less than top-notch inks, but one re-inking later, the Eye of Horus remains on my back as a nod to both a childhood obsession and twentysomething hubris. And did the boy ever see it, you ask? Yes, but only much later, after another boy, a truly lovely boy, had fallen under its spell.

My second tattoo came about 5 years ago. It had been a particularly tough year emotionally, and things were finally starting to balance out. To honour both the year that was and the better times sure to come, I chose to have the Sanskrit symbol for "om" inked on my wrist. It means many things to many people but, to me, it has always meant "balance". And like a talisman etched into my skin, I often find myself touching it during tough times. It's my badge of strength and perseverance, and it is not lost on me that a tattoo I got for deeply personal reasons is also the only one of my tattoos that is visible to everyone.

I got my third a week ago. It was the tattoo I thought about the least, it is not the tattoo I had spent the last two years thinking I wanted, but it is the tattoo I will love the most. It means many things to me, but mostly, it is for my grandparents. Even though Grampy has been gone nearly 17 years, and Nanny more than three, I don't think a day goes by that I don't think about them. The most obvious tattoo to honour them would have been a tractor and an apple pie, but I'm not that literal. Not that an apple pie tattoo wouldn't be all kinds of awesome. Even though several people have now seen it, I'm not spilling what it is. But I think it's lovely, and personal, and sexy, and, hopefully, nearly healed, because I can't take the itching. 

I know tattoos aren't for everybody. Every one I've dated has loved them on me, I think, though, oddly, no one I've ever dated has had one, at least not until after we parted. I love them, both on me and on other people, but they are, or at least should be, a deeply personal choice. And I think the reasons people have them are as varied as the tattoos themselves. Some are markers of specific periods in one's life, some are reminders of loves past and present, some are because tequila seemed like a good idea, and some just look effin' cool. I see mine as reminders of who I am, and of who I was. They're my story, on my skin. And you can't get more personal than that.

Date? Great!

Should I ever find myself in Wonderland, my first order of business will surprisingly NOT be to check out the dessert selection at the tea party. It won't even be to tell Alice she should really think twice about wearing a skirt that length with flat shoes. No, my first order of business will be to grab the White Rabbit by his fuzzy-wuzzy bunny ears and say "Dude, I know you're late, you're late,  for a very important date, but I need you to focus. What the hell is a date, exactly?"

My Oxford Paperback dictionary is of little help:

date (noun) - an appointment to meet socially; a person of the opposite sex with whom one has a social engagement.

Not very rainbow pride of them. And, depending on your definition of social, I may have dated my dentist, a handful of gay men, and possibly a guy from Monterey named Steve I met in line at the train station in Venice. We'll always have the Grand Canal, Steve.

Several years ago, a group of friends and I had a revolving, usually booze-fueled discussion about the definition of a date. There were as many theories as there are pick-up lines, but we did manage to establish a few loose guidelines:

1) A date requires some element of pre-planning. Oddly, at least to me, guys were more adamant about this than girls. Aside: I think girls who care about this too much own a hardcover, dog-eared copy of "The Rules". It might not be on the coffee table, but oh, trust me, it's there. But both sexes generally agreed that day of, last minute, "hey, got plans this evening?" mentions don't count. That might just be boredom. Or horniness. I'm still not sure how far in advance constitutes "preplanning", though. Two days? A week? When hockey season is over?

2) A date is two people. A group date is for pre-teens, The Bachelorette, and anyone who's spent way too much time co-ordinating date night schedules with her sister wives.

3) Intention. Now, intentions can be a  little undefined early on. Do you want a casual thing?  A serious thing? A platonic stand-by emergency wedding date thing? Enter the dating dilemma:  sometimes, you don't fully know anyone's intentions, even your own, until you actually go on a date.  But if intentions are considered a tipping point, then we have a conundrum. Sort of a He's a Catch-22 situation. Unless your intentions are limited to getting all liquored up and making out with someone, in which case you can probably stop reading.

Based on these criteria, I don't actually know if I've had a date in my life. Let's delve a little further, shall we, and examine these seemingly simple guidelines.

Point # 1 - advance planning. Sure, common sense will tell you most dates are pre-booked. Something to look forward to, you can make reservations, put on the good underwear just in case. But what about the following: you run into someone. Someone you like. You're both free, you decide to grab lunch, or a coffee, or a beer on a patio. You have a great time. You don't want your lunch/coffee/beer to end. Coffee becomes dinner becomes more drinks becomes that story with the great punch line becomes a drunken walk to your door at 3am after the best day ever. But under our rules, this isn't a date. Sorry - it became a date at the second location. The exception? If you're being kidnapped. Then, according to security experts, you NEVER LET THEM TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND LOCATION.

Point # 2 - More than two people aren't a date. I agree, mostly. But I have also spent many an evening in the company of friends and a crush. Sure, there were other people around, but we spent many of those nights sitting close, talking, while our oblivious friends wondered why I never wanted to share a cab with any of them. Because he was walking me home, you morons. Not dates? Not exactly, but when it was finally just the two of us for the first time, preplanned and all official,  it certainly didn't feel like a first date.

Point # 3 - Intention. Possibly the slipperiest word in the dating lexicon. Having to state your intentions up front to make sure they're the same as your maybe date's, in addition to seeming very Jane Austen, is also a total boner killer. But if intent is everything, as some of my friends contend, how do you figure it out without just asking? You might think you're on a date and he might just be happy to talk to a girl and not spend another evening eating three day old pizza in his underwear. Or, he might think asking you to a poetry reading series is a sure sign of his dating intentions, since a guy'd only sit through that if he digs you and wants to impress you with his sensitivity, right?  You, on the other hand, might assume he's gay. Or cries after sex. Neither of which is likely what he intended. 

I know what you're thinking:  really, does it matter so much what you call it? Many people, usually men, hate to define things, resisting labels at all costs. Can't it just be "hanging out", they'll ask? Well, it can be, except for one simple reason: women often have a number in their heads. This number equals the number of dates before they'll sleep with someone. I explained this dating math to an old flame, a label resister of epic proportions. If we can't decide what is or isn't a date, I said, then how am I supposed to know when we reach the magic date number? Suddenly, he realized he liked it and he should've put a label on it. Beers and pizza? A date. A movie and dessert afterwards?  A date. That time I made dinner and he stood me up because his ex-girlfriend was in town and her flight home got cancelled?  Probably not. Actually, subtract two dates, jackass

More confusing than trying to follow a cricket match. So I think I have a few new rules.

If we're both single, it's a date. If one of us isn't single, why the hell are we having drinks?

If I've spent any time wondering if the person sitting across from me is a good kisser, it's a date.

If I'm at a poetry reading series, it's not a date. Seriously, dude, stop your damn crying.