Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Putting the Kibosh on a Tattoo

Sorry. I've been too happy to post anything crabby lately.

Well, today is different. Don't you hate when you get on the phone with an unnamed relative and it's a perfectly nice day with flowers coming up and stuff but by the time you get off the phone, you feel bad about yourself? You wonder if getting a tattoo would help the look of the varicose veins on your legs, and you want to become someone else because just being you is not good enough for some people.

Yeah, that.

I have a message for anyone who doesn't like how I look. Shit, I can't say that in mixed company.

It's not working. I'm still feeling bad about myself. Plus, Nick came home from school and, because I was considering getting a tattoo and had one displayed on the computer, has begun to describe a tattoo for himself. Did I really want him to do that? A peace over power symbol or a Nordic symbol for strength?

Maybe we'd both feel better if I told you a story. 

Nick scootched me off my chair at the computer and went to work on his own search. I stood next to him, looking over his shoulder. Tattoo photos could be dicey material. I wasn't going anywhere.

"What will that thing look like when you're sixty?" I asked him when he pulled up an image of the Nordic symbol on the computer. It wasn't a bad symbol, but what would it look like with hair? Or wrinkles?

"Would you make me a smoothie?" he replied, staring at the screen.

"You can make your own smoothie," I said. I walked into the kitchen, knowing he never makes his own smoothie and that he's not likely to look at anything embarrassing since I was only ten feet away. Since bananas, strawberries, rice protein, and milk are pretty healthy, I know I'll make Nick a smoothie. I paused for a minute at the empty counter, then walked back out into the living room to face him. He had moved from the computer screen to the big screen, booting up a video game. "So, would you be embarrassed if I came home with a tattoo?" I asked him as he blew away some figure on the screen.

He just looked at me, a look that said that anything I did was an embarrassment. Public breathing was an embarrassment to him. The teenager.

I went back into the kitchen and got out the ingredients for a smoothie and yelled to him in the living room over the music on his game.

"You should imagine that symbol on your shoulder with hair on it," I shouted. I put the frozen strawberries and bananas into the cup of milk and the scoop of rice protein. I added some stevia. Nick groaned. I dug four ice cubes out of the ice maker, dropped them in, and stopped talking while the blender drowned out my voice.

"You should really imagine that symbol on your dad's shoulder. Imagine hair on it and a skin tag, yeah, a skin tag." Nick can't stand skin tags.

See, I might be more cool as an old mom with varicose veins if I have a small, tasteful tattoo covering that spot, a tree or a river with waves or something, but do I really want to imagine my son with a tattoo? I can put a stop to that.

Thank you for listening, jules

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