My first tattoo was a cute little portrait of Mickey Mouse on my ankle:
I got my second tattoo last spring to commemorate my first marathon, which I’d completed six months earlier:
My third (hypothetical) tattoo is a little bigger in scope. And I want it in a place I can’t show people so easily. And I want it for no bigger reason than the fact that I just want it. ’Cause I think it would be hot.
And thanks to a quick Google search and my burgeoning Photoshop skills, I designed a pretty good representation of how I hope it will look:
For those of you who can’t squint that hard, it’s a tiger (but just black ink on pink skin; I don’t have the Photoshop skills—or the patience—to strip all that white out from between all those tiger stripes) that looks like he’s clawing his way up from my swimsuit area. I know: Tram-PEE. But loaded with street cred. (“Hey! Don’t mess with Jake! He has a tiger tattoo. And tigers can really mess you up with their sharp claws and their biting sarcasm.”) Besides, I’ve always thought tats peeking out from waistbands are cool, and as I’ve started barreling toward my Big 4-0, I’ve replaced sheet cake with water-packed tuna as my dominant meal plan. So my abs still look tigerrific (I just made that word up!) in certain light.
Anyway, the whole tiger tat thing is still in the I-wonder-if-I’ll-actually-go-through-with-it stage. Which means it wouldn’t happen until I thought about it for at least another six months. Then again, I’ve already been thinking about it for years, so maybe I’ll just squeeze it in between bank and grocery errands tomorrow.
Either way, the hospital birth records department will be hearing from my family soon.