You might recall I’ve been exploring various ways to commemorate the Joys of Summer; first with Botox, then with the Brazilian wax.
I’ll spare you the suspense now: I pursued neither of these activities having deemed them both expensive and temporary.
(Plus—in the case of Botox—potentially paralytic; and—in the case of the Brazilian—excruciatingly painful.)
They’re both also undeniably vain procedures, and I try to limit myself to deniable vanity.
Therefore, I’d decided to carry on through my joyful summer naturally. So to speak.
Until my mother—who reads my blog—said this to me during a recent visit:
“I see you didn’t get Botox.”
(At which point I realized I needed it even more than previously imagined.)
Then she whispered, “What about the other thing,” with a quick glance toward my lap.
(At which point I may have temporarily lost consciousness.)
So here’s what I learned:
When one publicly documents a Joys of Summer attitude, the pressure is on to actually engage in some kind of seasonal celebration.
(And also I have crows’ feet and perhaps an unruly bikini line.)
Never one to be easily daunted—if you know me in real life, stop laughing!—I’ve picked a third option which is also expensive and painful, but at least it’s permanent!
(Because whimsical experimentation should carry with it lifelong consequences, yes?)
So. Here it is: Bill and I are getting tattoos this August.
Maybe. Probably. I think.
If you’re against this type of body enhancement, please don’t judge. My teenaged rebellion consisted of telling my parents I was going to the movies when I was actually bowling. (Try not to be jealous of my wildness.) Sometimes, we’d stop at a deserted lot and drink a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. (If you’re too young to know what those are, I don’t hate you. Probably.)
In other words, I’m overdue for a little crazy in my life.
When we got married in 1996, Bill and I decided not to take a honeymoon. Instead we pooled our money for a down-payment on a house which, given the current California housing market, was one of the best decisions we ever made. We envisioned a one-year anniversary trip to Hawaii, assuming we hadn’t rendered ourselves completely house poor.
Instead, we rendered me completely pregnant and celebrated our first anniversary with a screaming baby in lieu of umbrella drinks in Maui.
(This was a worthy trade <—she writes, in case her son reads this someday.)
So. Here we are fifteen years later, and we never did take that honeymoon.
Sure, we went to Italy in 1999, but I was pregnant with my daughter (we have excellent reproductive timing, yes?); also it wasn’t a strictly romantic vacation since he’d won the trip through his job, and we were in Rome with ninety of his closest co-workers and bosses.
Molto splendido, no?
Nowadays, most of our vacations involve skiing with the kids or visiting relatives which is awesome, but not romantic. (Much.)
In conclusion: We’ve given up on love in Hawaii and are celebrating fifteen years of ill-timed childbirth by getting inked. Expensive? Check. Painful? Check. Permanent?
So here’s where you come in.
…I need your stories of what you have tattooed and where (if I may be so bold).
…I need to hear that you don’t regret it—at all, ever—or if you do, why?
…I need your suggestions for my own permanent, expensive, painful ink <—What and where. Go ahead. Dazzle me!
…I need your recommendation of a nice bottle of wine to ease the pain. Or you could mail me any leftover Vicodin you have lying around…that’s legal, right?
If not, don’t tell my mother I asked.
She’s probably still upset about the Bartles & Jaymes.
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