Tattooed to a "T"

I really didn’t mean to do it. It just sort of happened. My long-time friend, Pam, started it. During a meeting of the class reunion committee last fall, Pam mentioned that she had a couple of tattoos. She didn’t say where they were, and since I had known Pam for over fifty years, l had the good sense not to ask.

I guess that’s what got me to thinking. What should I do to celebrate my retirement? I had to be so straight-laced all those years or at least thought I had to be. It was time to branch out and do something off the wall. Since going to prison has never been very high on my list of “Things I Want To Do Before I Die”, I decided to keep it legal. That caveat did, however, narrow my options considerably.

Hence the tattoo. They are legal, affordable, readily available, and from what I could learn, not terribly painful unless you decide to have one burned into your eyelids. In reality, “burned” is not the word. Actually, ink is injected into the skin with tiny needles that the tattoo-ee hopes have been sterilized.

After a full day of intensive research which consisted of calling Pam and asking a few questions, I decided to proceed with my plan to permanently disfigure my body. The first plan of action was to decide which emblem, word, or insignia I wanted to employ to provide amusement for my eventual embalmer. I considered the word “MOM” with a bolt of lightning through it, but that had already been done. A butterfly would have put me too close in touch with my feminine side. I also considered the Chinese symbol for “music”, but my innate distrust of tattoo artists led me to think that someone with a sense of humor could give me a Chinese symbol that implied that I like to kiss chickens on the lips while howling at the moon, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

I finally decided on a University of Tennessee Vols logo. I have been a Vols fan for years and I figured the worst that could happen was that they could go 0-12 and I would have to get it reddened into a University of Texas logo.

The next decision involved where to put it. The largest wide open space on my body, unfortunately, was my stomach, but that didn’t seem quite right. I was concerned that subsequent expansion would render the “T” so distorted as to be unrecognizable, especially around the holiday season. The chest was considered, but there are four chest hairs there that I have no intention of giving up. I wanted it in a place where I could see it, but the rest of the world couldn’t unless they had my permission. Ultimately, I decided upon the second largest wide open space available. My right bun.

The final hurdle to cross was to find a tattooist. More research revealed that most of my friends who had tattoos got them while they were drunk in Destin. That didn’t help me since I had no intention of either getting drunk or going to Florida anytime soon. It also came to my attention that most of the tattoo artists in West Tennessee operate out of condemned buildings. At best, I perceived serious sterility issues.

The problem was finally resolved when I remembered that my niece, who lived in Nashville, had two. I called to ask who did her’s and was told of a very skilled and reputable artist there. One Saturday in January, I decided to go to Nashville and get the tattoo.

My niece, Paula, had to work that Saturday, but her friend Samantha wanted to go with me. She was also thinking about getting a tattoo and wanted to see how much I screamed. The knowledge that I was having it put on my right bun didn’t seem to discourage her, so I figured “what the heck”, and agreed to let her watch the process.

When I entered the shop and spoke to the man at the front desk, I was faced with another important decision. Which artist did I want? I asked who was available, as if I would know either of them, and was given the choice of either Psycho or Fred. Not being a total idiot, I chose Fred. I plunked down two twenty-dollar bills and Fred left to prepare the instruments. Samantha followed me into the room and I am told ( by Fred ) to lower my pants and have a seat on the table with my back to him and Samantha. Next thing I know, Samantha is taking pictures with her camera phone. I asked her to at least wait until the tattooing started.

Bottom line, (sorry ) I was happy with the quality of Fred’s work and the pain was much like listening to opera. It’s something I can tolerate if I have to, but I’m kinda glad when its over. I had the tattoo placed high enough that I don’t have to incense anyone who wants to see it, but low enough that the preacher’s wife probably won’t get a peek. I have made available a Baptist Viewing and a Methodist Viewing, but I won’t get into that.

Now I have to celebrate turning 60. God help us all.

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