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.”

My Daughter Shamed Me For Getting A Tattoo At 75. Here's What I Did
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“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.

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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.

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