Running2Ks (at True Blue Semi-Crunchy Mama) and I are co-hosts for sharing some memories we haven’t shared before. Please feel free to play along with new or old memories!
I’ve been thinking about this a bit…wanna do my best for R2k! In light of the holidays and birthdays, I remembered my 32nd birthday, which in the last several, is my favorite. 30 was gross, due to having a 10 week old, our third, and gobs of post partum disturbance, not to mention the baby weight yet to come off. I can’t remember 31. Then came 32 (it tends to follow 31). We flew to Dallas for the 2 weeks surrounding Christmas and New Year’s, and bunked in with my in laws. For my birthday, MIL and FIL kept our three children, while Mr. Tango and I checked into the Westin Hotel with our bestest long term friends (pictured in the Flashback New Year’s Eve pic). My girlfriend and I went to the spa for the most awesome pedicure I’ve ever had, before going for dinner. Dinner was at a jazz club I’ll never remember the name of, where we had several courses, each with its own wine, and a dessert cordial to die for. Of course, there were martinis prior to dinner, with our appetizer (it’s a jazz club, duh). Exquisite martinis. Yum. We were witty, and pithy, and so smooth, I’m sure, and somewhere in the evening, I got my partially pickled brain set on tattoos. Tattoos for us all. Everyone needs a tattoo. So I announced to our table of 4 that it would be their birthday gift to me. We’d all get one, the same one, in the same place. Our pact of forever friendship. Or stupidity. Whichever. It took moving to a late night club, and a couple more drinks to convince the husband (not mine, my girlfriend’s) that this would be acceptable, and no one need know (until now, sorry Cam). And the promise that my designer husband would personally sketch something to take to the tattoo, um, artist, as we certainly wouldn’t want just any old ink scratched in on our butts. And finally, I won. And another time, I may wax on about the tattoo parlor itself. It’s a story all on its own. It’s safe to say we didn’t exactly, well, fit in.
The best part of the evening was watching the husband nearly pass out, as his pants were partially pulled down his hips, when the needle made its mark. The rest of us were just fine. We all presented our bums with aplomb, and received after care instructions. Something about hydrogen peroxide, or rubbing alcohol, and soap and water. And then we picked up a birthday cake on the way back to the hotel. But the funniest part was hearing each of us in the shower the next morning (separately, not together) exclaiming over this new thing etched into our arses. It was as if we’d not really expected it to be there after that night, and poof! There it was. Black, and permanent.
Lesson learned? Yep. I’d do it again. Never too old to do something a little off the wall. In fact, the older I get, the more fun it is. It was a ton of fun. Maybe it’s not too late to get one for my 35th…something classy, maybe on an ankle…
P.S. If you check in, my tattoo wearing comrades, thanks for the laugh! We, and our butts, miss you.
Got something you want to share?
If you want to play, post a Monday Memory on your blog, leave a link in the comments, and we’ll post it–Running@ks will post her commenter links, and I’ll post mine.
Technorati Tag: Monday Memories
