Tattoos and Marriage

“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow — this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”

Elizabeth Gilbert

I happened to be out to dinner one night with one of my twin daughters; everyone else in our family was occupied, so it was just the two of us.

Over her salad, she commented that she wasn’t sure she would like to get married. “Getting married is like getting a tattoo. It’s forever!” She followed up, with a bit of a twinkle in her eye, “It’s expensive to get, and hard to get rid of!”

When I stopped laughing, she asked me in a more serious tone, “Why did you get married?” Ah, one of those wonderful moments in parenthood when so much rests on your reply.

I paused, and said something like this: “That’s an interesting story. When I was thirty, looking intently for Ms. Right, I attended the funeral of my great uncle Drew, whom I knew well and loved. His widow, my grandfather’s sister, Aunt Lucille, was a beautiful, intelligent, and regal woman. I adored her and thought very highly of her opinion.

“So, I thought she might shed some light on my dilemma, and I asked her, ‘What made you know that Uncle Drew was the right guy?’ Seeing right through me, she replied, ‘You know they’re the right one when you can’t imagine not being married to them.’

“I liked that answer, and I used it as my mantra for a while. But, I realized that, although good for some, that advice was not right for me, because I can imagine just about anything.

“Why did I get married? Because after meeting my sweetheart, it was painful to imagine not seeing her ever again, never speaking to her or holding her hand. And I knew then and there that I wanted to marry her.

“I was so much like the French philosopher who said, ‘When I was a young man, I vowed never to marry until I found the ideal woman. Well, I found her, but, alas, she was waiting for the ideal man.’ Yet, in my case, she married me anyway.”

And that answer seemed to satisfy a fourteen-year-old’s curiosity, for the moment anyway.