I'm going to tell a little story...she won't remember it. Because she never remembers anything, and really, I take my job as historian of our high school/early college memories very seriously.
Fifteen years ago I walked into a tattoo parlor with my friend Kelly (and our other friend Kelly--they were the number 3 and 4 graduates in our class, respectively. I threw that out there because I think y'all need to know that I have always made it a point to befriend the brilliant folks...I include each of you in this category, just so you know.) and watched as she inked her ankle with a little infinity symbol. I remember thinking, "Before I die, I will get a tattoo." It didn't happen at that moment because we were eighteen and I feared the wrath of my parents. But I knew...I knew the day of reckoning would eventually arrive and I'd never again be able to say, "I am ink free." It was on my list of life goals.
I achieved that goal. I got my tattoo this past Saturday, in California.
Here's me baring boo-tay for Randy, the tattoo artist:
Tattooed Minivan Mom took the pictures...in fact, Randy is her tattoo artist of choice, so I was in good hands. And he had really good hands because I barely felt a thing. I promise y'all, I kept saying, "Um, when's it gonna hurt?" I'm not a masochist or anything, but I was really wanting to feel some pain. I didn't. Sigh...
I would also like to point out that Randy's hands gave me a little rubdown once he finished the job. I joked, "Dude, should we smoke a cigarette now or something? It seems appropriate." It's a wonder he didn't run screaming from the shop. Instead he gave me a big ol' hug. I guess he figured it was the right thing to do, since he'd seen crack and all.
The entire process took about twenty minutes. Here's the end result:
Oh yes, I named my tat. Because Tiffany usually shortens "Lula" to "Lu," and I just love that. I love her. She unknowingly named my pink-bowed jolly roger. It makes me happy.
Finally, I have to tell y'all the two best comments I've received in regards to my newly tattooed self. My 31 year old brother, Eric, texted, "Dude, now you are a thug!" Yay--that was the goal all along, of course.
And my precious 3 year old Caroline, who squealed upon seeing it, "Mommy--that's a PIRATE!" Yes, my baby love...it is a pirate. Just like your mother.