Ink me up

Lately I’ve been obsessing on tattoos that I have even started to dream that I have one. Or two.  Call it midlife crisis as you may, but getting  tattoos nowadays is not the same as it was during my father’s time.  Sporting one does not automatically mean you are part of a gang, or an addict, or a freak.

Well, some tattoos are pretty freaky and stupid if you ask me but that’s another blog entry entirely.

Now for my tattoo, I specifically want it on my arm, just the right size that would peek out of my shirt. It can be colored, or plain black, and the design must mean a lot to me. I do not want to wake up one day and ask my self “What were you thinking?”  I do not want my arm to just look like it’s been drawn over by a kid with permanent marker. I don’t want to regret having a tattoo. I don’t want it on other parts of my body unless it is going to be uber cool.

That is why I do not have one till now.  The uber cool design just eludes me.

H would just roll his eyes whenever the topic comes up. It’s my life he says.  I am pretty sure he does not want me to do it but since it is my arm that gets the ink, he can’t really do anything about it.

One thing is for sure, I am not getting a tattoo until a design hits me with such profound meaning that I would want it permanently on my arm. Or the back of my neck. Or my leg.

I want my tattoo to be too cool for words that even when I am old and wrinkled, I still would not ever regret having one.

And I have to get one before or when I reach 40.


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