Ink

When I was within whistling distance of 50 I decided to get a tattoo on my fanny.

It is difficult to explain the exigences of a woman zipping towards fifty. Please believe me when I say this is not a state for the faint of heart.

It was somewhere between 49 and 50 that I realized I had exhausted all of my sexual currency.

I woke up one morning, swung my legs out of bed and for reasons that still baffle me I stared into the full length mirror in my bathroom.

There stood this middle aged woman who was succumbing to gravity faster than searing hot wax dribbling down a basket bottomed Chianti bottle.

Absolutely shocking! Who hell was that old biddy?

This was the epitome of a colossally rude awakening that culminated in my grand idea of getting a tattoo on my ass.

I cannot explain how my somewhat addled brain made that leap, but it did.

I started drawing some pictures that had the theme of a dragon spitting out stars. I should have known then that I was awash in a profusion of compromised thinking.

I finished the picture and took the result of my artistic efforts to a tattoo artist in Santa Cruz.

There I was in the Tat Studio staring into the hemorrhaging eyes of this hunky, blond, pony tailed guy. He looked to be about 30 and manifested the appearance of someone coming down from an insanely intense Acid Trip. That gave me pause but just for a second.

I took a breath and continued to hurtle towards my inky fate.

He looked at the drawing then he looked at me and said “ Where did you say you want this?” I turned around and indicated an area on my hip/butt cheek area. We determined that it would be dessert plate size with a five color palette. He gave me a price of $300.00 and said it would be three sessions because of all the detail work.

I gave him half the payment and the deal was struck. I had an appointment for the ensuing week.

The night before I was going to the Tat Studio my sleep was restless and rife with weird dreams the last of which woke me in a shattered state of red rushing shame.

In my dreamscape I was floating above my discarded dead body which sadly reclined on a cold white slab in the morgue. I looked to be somewhere between 90 and eternity.

There I was as naked as the day I was born with this very young man staring down at my wrinkled old bod as he gabbed away with Jack, the guy at the next slab.

My attendant started hosing me down and in one deft movement flipped my cold, gray corpse onto it’s belly.

I watched in horror as he squintily peered at my butt. His dark bushy brows brows began to knit a fisherman's sweater of consternation and confusion as he said to his buddy “ Hey Jack, what do you think this was?”

I was ripped out of this nightmare quicker than a fart leaving a ducks ass. I felt breathless, moist and generally yucky.

My course was clear.

I waited till the studio opened, cancelled the appointment and fell into a steaming heap of relief.

The moral of this story is:

When common sense fails, shame will save your ass.

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