Confession: I love tattoos.
I have two. I’d have more, I’m sure, if I didn’t think my mother would murder me.
But — I want a third.
Smoop doesn’t understand this — but seeing as how she’s never pierced her ears (and I ran with a crowd that pierced things at lunch in parking lots), I’m not too surprised.
For me, tattoos are reminders of important milestones. Things I’ve done. Things I’ve learned. Obstacles I’ve overcome.
Like, my first one, reminds me that I was an asshole when I was 18.
Smoop said, no tattoos, ever. So, naturally, as soon as I was 18 and sure I was getting into college somewhere (what? I’m a rebel, but not stupid. I knew she wouldn’t hurt me if she’d already mailed a tuition check) I ran out and got a tattoo. I managed to hide it for two weeks — but it was summertime, and I was in a bathing suit, and I dropped my guard for one second! My shoulder was exposed! I was discovered! She literally backed me into a corner. And then, she just laughed, and told me it looks like a meat stamp. For awhile she called me USDA Approved.
I figured that was fair.
In college, I almost did it again, a few times — but man am I glad I didn’t, because I had terrible taste when I was 19 (like, worse than chinese symbols-terrible). Instead, I pierced things — which Smoop really did not appreciate. The fact I came home with a ring in my nose on Mother’s Day one year may have something to do with that.
Then a few years ago, fresh out of a long and failing relationship — I got another one. This time it was to remind me to do all those things you say you’re going to do after someone breaks up with you. Be yourself. Be genuine. Love yourself. Do all those things, and you’ll find someone who appreciates you for who you are. You know, all that crap.
This time I want something… fertile.
You know, because I’m not.
Take a second and google “fertility symbols.”
Now take a deep breath and relax, because I’m not getting any of those.
I’m thinking of going for birds-and-the-bees-type of thing. Only I’m terrified of bees, which just leaves us with birds.
Something along these lines:
So the other day (and by other day, I mean right before we sat down for Thanksgiving dinner) I told her I was getting a third.
I warned her before the second one too (I don’t like being backed into corners) and as far as I can tell she’s over it.
I mean, now that everyone she knows saw the meat stamp on my wedding day (the word, “mortified” was thrown around a lot), I think the jig is up.