Well, we had a good time at our friends' house for the Fourth of July. Summer celebrating is in full swing and the cats are all jazzed up from the popping and zinging fireworks going off outside. We live in the middle of nowhere and still, it's loud.
Tonight, we talked about tattoos. Four of us were left sitting around the patio table while the boys rode their bikes in the dark in the culdesac. I was just saying that I hoped the tattoo phase would pass by the time our boys got to be old enough to get one when our host, Alex, said, "I have tattoos." I hate that feeling when I've insulted someone just by opening my mouth. I do that a lot.
"No way, you do not," I actually said. Then he peeled his sleeve up to show us a beautifully shaded and tattooed dragon. He had what looked like an octopus on the other shoulder too. He said it wasn't finished, but it was detailed and amazing to look at. I wanted to look at it closer, but it felt so personal. I actually had to pull my finger back from touching it.
Oh, I had thought about getting a tattoo when I was in my twenties, but couldn't imagine sitting still while someone came at me with a sewing machine with a loaded needle set to stun. Plus, I could never think of a design that I could live with all my life. The only places that I imagined aging well were on my ankle and maybe a toe ring, and they told me those bony places really hurt. I never went with my friends when they got theirs. There was also that AIDS thing that came up about that time and it was a clincher: no tattoo for me. I'm glad, really. That butterfly would look pretty saggy on my veiny thigh now.
Still, maybe I could get my varicose veins turned into some kind of tattoo.
Thank you for listening, jb
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