Kelly Davio's previous Waiting Room columns for The Butter can be found here. In my mid-twenties, I sat for my first and only tattoo. It’s a sizable piece on my left shoulder: a wax-sealed envelope nestled in a bed of primroses. In my mind, it was a reminder that, regardless of the bad news of life—the rejection, the failure, the royal screw-ups—good news would come for me, too. There would be acceptances, success, and…
It was a decade ago that Lauren and I got matching tattoos, three-inch flames on the inside of our right biceps. The guy who did them was stocky, cranky and wearing a leather vest. In the next chair, a girl no older than us was wincing tearfully as she got her boyfriend's name inked onto her hip inside a fat red heart. I'd be lying if I said the contrast didn’t make us feel a…
