I'll be 32 in September.
Within that time frame, I can't tell you that I've ever wanted a tattoo.
It's not that I have a religious restriction.
Or a hesitation about "marking my body".
I just never wanted to be in my 80s and look down and think
"What the hell was I thinking with that?"
"Tweety bird, really?"
"That's not spelled correctly."
"I'm not sure I can tell what that was supposed to be."
A group of friends and I were actually standing in a tattoo parlor
in OKC 2 years ago waiting to get variations of Africa.
The artist was ticked there were 10 of us.
And I don't think she gave a rip about Africa.
She was so rude, we all left.
Back around Christmas, a sponsorship letter arrived from K.
At the bottom of it, he had drawn an adorable flower.
I told The Hero I had found my tattoo.
He laughed it off.
"Baby, that's probably not just for you. It's probably just a coincidence.
He probably draws that all the time."
Maybe the first time.
But imagine my surprise when I opened up the mail yesterday.
Our first letter from K since Christmas.
And at the bottom:
The above image is inked on my body.
Happy 32nd to me.