Tattoo

I think often of getting a tattoo. At first, it represented a rebellion, something that could make me look more dangerous, edgier, daring. Unless I opted for the Winnie the Pooh, or worse, Harld and the Purple Crayon. Of course, way back in the early 1980s, I got my ears pierced to be a rebel, and see where that's gone. Now it seems everyone has a tattoo, and I feel like I'll be the only senior citizen in the complex without one.

I played in a beach volleyball tournament at the Jersey Shore a few years back. There were probably about 75 teams, meaning there were 150 guys on the beach that day. Most were much younger than me, college aged, and I began to note how many had tattoos. So I did a quick survey of the shoulders and arms and shins and ankles and hips and chests, and about 75% of the dudes were inked. You know, eventually, the world is going to have to prepare itself for tattooed CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Dare I even say... the President.

And yet, in the end, I'm still stuck with the same underlying problem that has plagued me since I first thought about getting one. WHAT do I want to permanently emblazen upon my body? And where? And how much is it going to hurt? OK, three underlying problems. But still, should I go with the rose, the knife, the skull and crossbones, the volleyball, the comedy/tragedy masks? Oh, forget it, I'll just put on this Huckleberry Hound temporary tattoo.