I suck at selfies. Sorry.

This past weekend, my tattoo artist Derek and I started work on what will ultimately become a half-sleeve, meant to commemorate my experience at the Keys ultra. The first stage is done, a bouquet of tropical flowers and palm frond on my left shoulder that is currently itching and peeling under my cardigan. When everything is complete, my upper arm will be a tropical jungle of brightly-colored flowers and birds.

When people find out that I have several tattoos, they are often surprised.  “You don’t seem like the kind of woman to have a lot of ink,” they say.  I get it.  I have that kind of middle-class, wholesome, blonde-ponytail, white-teeth aura specific to those of us brought up as Utah Mormons.  My people do garments, not tattoos.

Truthfully I don’t have any of the markers that would indicate I belong to a tattoo-friendly subculture. …