Gee, I made one flippant comment about wanting a tattoo and suddenly my phone is ringing at 6:55 am.
As I rolled out of bed to pick up the phone downstairs, I muttered “that better not be my mom.”
It was my dad.
The very thought of me, his oldest and wisest daughter, entertaining the idea of getting a tattoo led him to give me the wake up call. Mightily displeased with my tattoo dreams, he claimed to have an airline website up, ready to book a flight to come talk some sense into me.
Evidently, I’m not too old to be spanked.
To be honest, I’ve always secretly wanted a tattoo.
No roses or dragons or unicorns or barbed wire.
And most definitely NO tramp stamps.
Something fun and small. A dragonfly. Or a cupcake.
I want to be a bad ass.
Well, a sensible bad ass with a station wagon and cupcake tattoo. But still, I’m tired of being boring and milquetoast. Even a neurotic housewife needs a bit of excitement to break up the monotony of daily life.
I’ll never jump out of an airplane or repel from a building; I’m petrified of SCUBA diving and motorcycles give me the heebie jeebies.
However, I am not afraid of needles.
The way I figure it, the only way I’ll ever come close to being even a little bit bad ass is to get a tattoo.
I’ve toiled with the idea for years, but somehow managed to put in on the back burner. I’m still searching for a reputable, clean and non scary tattoo parlor. I’m not afraid of needles, but dirty tattoo establishments and unfriendly looking tattoo artists concern me.
I honestly hadn’t thought about it in awhile, that is, until my exercise instructor walked into the gym on Monday with two tattoos. TWO!
She’s near 40 and has four kids.
I figured if she could be a bad ass and get two tattoos, then I could too.
Only, as it turns out, they were airbrushed on. Admittedly this crushed my spirit a bit, but I’m trucking on. Dedicated to the task of achieving bad assdom.
However, I’ll have to postpone my tattoo experience for just a little bit longer.
I somehow managed to vow that I wouldn’t do it until my dad was, um, no longer with us.
But you see, although my last name may have changed nearly 13 years ago, I’m still a Kennedy at heart. And we Kennedys tend to be a little wicked.
I can’t help it that my wicked streak appeared a little later than expected.
You can’t fight it, man. It’s in the blood.