Inked

If White Trash had a bucket list, getting a tattoo would definitely be on it.  How do I know this?  I recently scratched it off.

No, I’m not going through a midlife crisis. 

And no, I don’t think my body needs sprucing up—in that way anyway. 

I got inked because of a lopsided trade deal. 

I agreed that if John would trim away his living tribute to ZZ Top, then I would get what was supposed to be a thumb-sized version of Winnie the Pooh on what once was—albeit a lifetime ago—the small of my back.  Why a Pooh Bear?  Because that is my beloved’s nickname.  It would be an outward sign to all interested men that this middle-aged, mother of six is off the market. 

I have a real problem with guys hitting on me like that.

Perhaps I should have obsessed about it a little more than I had (God knows I obsess about everything else), or at the very least watched an episode of LA Inked, because when we arrived at Jonezy’s Tattoo Parlor, I was way too calm and way too uninformed. 

When Mayle, who tagged along for a touch-up job of her own, asked me for the third time if I was nervous, I began thinking that I should be.  As I nervously glanced at Jonezie’s updated CPR certifications on the wall of his cubicle, it occurred to me that I could die there, amongst a subculture I know nothing about.

Before starting, he made a point of turning up the stereo system loud enough to eliminate the possibility of carrying on any type of conversation.

“Is that to cover up the sound of my screams?” I sarcastically asked.  After all, I’d given birth six times, how painful could a tattoo be?

Pretty painful, I soon found out as the tattoo needle began to jackhammer my flesh.  I panted and breathed characteristic of a Lamaze delivery.  I could only glare at John between shots and think,

“Babies, a tubal, and now this?”

I think I swore more in that hour and a half than I have all year.  I’ve never imagined I’d ever hate something as benign as Winnie the Pooh.

The end result?  Who knows?  I hear it’s sweet, but it’s in place where I’ll never see it.

And John’s beard?  It’s gone, and if he ever grows it back again, I’m taking a pair of scissors to it while he sleeps.  No more negotiating.

It’s been almost an entire week since my experience.  Since then I’ve managed to glance at my palm-sized addition only a fistful of times.  I have, however, been able to enjoy it second hand as my skin sloughs off its inky scales. 

John has found a newfound respect for me. 

“You’re one tough broad!”  he keeps remarking. 

And, of course, he’s right.  I am pretty tough, though not very astute.  If I were, I would have grown myself some leg hair and agreed to shave away mine right after he shaved off his. 

But had I played it that way, I wouldn’t have had the unique experience of getting my first—and mostly importantly—only tattoo with my daughter. 

And who knows, maybe I would have enjoyed my luxurious new leg hair.  In which case, John would still be looking Amish and I very much European.