I finally did the deed.
I am no longer a virgin. Not the way dirty minds think. I got a tattoo. A small one. Tiny really. “Annie” on my ring finger.
What the hell was I thinking? I’ll tell you what I was thinking… Something so small and simple can’t hurt that much.
So, Annie, Ms. Poker Face, went first. She sat in the chair like she was getting her nails done. I hate that because I already have a sneaky suspicion that I’m going to look foolish and I hate comparisons. All I can think is she looks so cool and “Nicole” is even one letter longer than “Annie.” I’m gonna look like a pussy, I just know it.
Then Annie says something I didn’t quite hear that she won’t repeat. Aracely, our god daughter (we’re Fairy God Mothers, hee hee!) directs me to a sign that reads, “Whiners will be charged extra.” Great, my $50 tattoo now costs $60 and I haven’t even sat in the chair!
A couple of “buzz, buzzes” and it’s my turn.
I tell the tattoo artist, David Flores, that he’s my first. He tells me he doesn’t get first timers anymore. I tell him to be gentle. I think he hears me when the needle presses into my skin. Oh, I think. That’s not so baAAAD!
That hurt. Like really bad. Only I don’t say “Ow.” The whites of my eyes got as big as saucers and I laugh. Hard. And long. In a strangely awkward and slightly weird way. I grip the chair with my right hand, wishing just one letter in that David was already done. Reminds me of my fucked up hetero marriage, but that’s a god-awful blog for a day when I’m completely shitfaced, which is to say never.
Victoria, our kiddo, her eyes get wide with mine either in horror or sympathy. She’s a teenager so I’m not quite sure which. Now she’s laughing too. My face turns this really cool, deep shade of red. I know this because everyone is remarking at how funny I look in red. And I’m sweating. Profusely. It’s not sexy at all. I can’t even look at my finger. I’m afraid I’ll puke just knowing how many more letters are left.
Now that I think of it, I’m so glad we were the only ones in the shop besides David’s assistant who probably pissed her pants in the back laughing at me.
David lets up on the needle and I think we’re done when he says, “I just have to touch it up.”
Without looking I say, “No, it’s fine. It looks fine.” But he doesn’t listen and he goes in for the kill. Annie, God bless her, distracts me and says something about how laughing releases endorphins and how endorphins are good painkillers. I start to laugh hard again, this time it’s really sort of creepy, but I guess I pull it off because now everyone in the room is laughing, too. And he’s done, thank God.
So I’m at work this week showing off my tattoo to a former Marine, Nick. Nick just got this really cool tattoo done that damn near covers his back. He tells me the finger is the worst place for a newbie to get a tat because it hurts. No shit. I’ve always thought Marines and bikers were bad asses. Who’s ever seen one tattoo-less? I feel a little bad ass now too, but I know I could never own a Harley if it meant I had to get another tattoo. Maybe I’m really just a scooter chick.