No Regrets

We've all been there.  Standing in the parking lot, peering into our bag as if we expect something new to materialize. We ask ourselves "Do I need this? Do I really need this?" And for most of us we shake it off, close the bag, and walk the rest of the way to the car.  Others of us allow the buyer's remorse to occur while standing in the produce section of the grocery store.  We say to ourselves "I do love the butter lettuce, but dangit if that iceburg head isn't going to save me 39 cents. What will I tell my friends when they find out I buy fancy lettuce?!" I wish I was joking.

Walk across the parking lot from the grocery store to a Broomfield tattoo parlor, and you'll see what I did this Saturday.  If I were able to title the event, it would be called "Valentines Day 2010: A Gift of Epic Awesomeness and General Badassery."  It is the most literal title available for my day.

It began with an email from my friend that went a little something like this:
"So, I think I'm going to act on a impulse and get [name changed]'s initials with a heart tattooed on my butt for Valentines (no, I'm not joking). I'll probably do this tomorrow afternoon or Saturday.
This is not the kind of thing I want to do alone."

and a thread continued on to the tune of:

"Ohmyhahaha that is amazing.  I will come hold you hand and laugh. At you."

"If it's less than 50....I could maybe be persuaded"

"I haven't quite convinced myself to actually go through with getting the tattoo.  Listen, it's not because it's against my religion or anything I just think it might hurt my precious baby butt."

 "guys I'm getting a real one. I'm getting an anchor because it looks like tyler's initials and more reasons.  But i'm doing it because if I don't do it right now, I'll chicken out again. Sorry to go emo."

and finally:

"I am so excited about this I could not sleep last night. I am totally in to get the name on the ass. Should we make an appt. somewhere?"

Translation: 5 married women with either jobs or children or both tattooing names/initials in hearts, on cheeks, for a gift. Yes, David, this is real life.

After an eventful night of marriage curses, phone calls, and text messages from a tattooist   man-child, we found our parlor, our price point, and our cover stories for our husbands for the afternoon.  A decoy meet-up at Target, a little caffeine, some Michael (Jackson, if you have to ask) and we were ready to the dang thing.

Does this story get better? Oh yes, yes it does.

We get to the Big Easy (real name) and are greeted by Paul, who would be our artist for the day and would proceed to tattoo the initials of my friend's husbands on to my friend's individual tushers, as my younger brother calls it.  One by one, each girl drew the heart and the initials (think of your high school notebook, but grown-up, very grown-up). Then we'd all giggle and coo around the chair our friend was laying in, effectively mooning each of us, and braid each others' hair to distract from the pain.There were a  few comments of  "At least it's not like a real tattoo," even though it most definitely was. It was the hipster version of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, or more like the Ya-ya Twisted Sister Hood. Holla Dee Snyder!


Once each of my friends were brandishing a hilariously wonderful Valentine's day gift on their ba-donks (it's amazing how many euphemisms I can think of for that body part), it was my turn.  I brought over my little drawing, and rolled up my sleeve.  Then, I braced for impact.  I might have asked a few times "This isn't a boy's tattoo right? Because I don't want to look at a boy tattoo everyday." I learned, that even girls can be sailors. Frick.

The gift reveal was a success, and despite being 2 hours late for our fancy V-day party, everyone was really stoked on the day. It was one of the best Saturdays I've had.  Even if I look at my arm when I'm 50, and say "what was I thinking?"  I'll remember the day and lighten up, because I still can't believe how much fun it was. Also, if I don't think it's awesome when I'm fifty, someone needs to remind me that I used to be fun, and had really, and I mean really, great friends, and I need to relax.

About the buyer's remorse.  Well, that was to be expected.  And as you can see, it is on my wrist.  My wrist that I see about 200 times a day.  My wrist that I can get way too close to my face and stare at every imperfect pore, not to mention not so straight lines or asymmetrical anchors.  I may go back and get it perfected, but I also may just leave it as is.  A souvenir from a day I went out-with one day's notice- with friends to get a tattoo in honor of my hub, that will also always make me think of them.

Ahoy mateys!