As if this blog wasn't enough to ensure that I never get a job, I have managed to find yet another way to scare off potential employers. Surprise Dad! I got a tattoo. (Seriously, he doesn't know. Don't tell him.)
I've always wanted to get one, but I never really thought about it as a serious possibility. I mean, I'm a little Jewish girl. I have no business being anywhere near a tattoo parlor. But last Friday morning, I decided I was going to do it. Of course, I immediately told everyone I know. Considering I am absolutely terrified of men with tattoos (ironic, right?), I needed to find someone to chaperone me. My guy friends, who are all apparently total babies about needles, thought I was completely full of shit and refused to come with me. So, one rainy, hungover Friday morning, I dragged my four best friends with me to get a tattoo.
We walked into the place three times (once before breakfast, once after breakfast and once after breakfast#2) before I worked up the courage to ask for an appointment. Based on the people in the waiting room, four of whom had those creepy expandable earrings in their earlobes, I could tell that we were not their usual clientele. Five loud, hungover college students in Nantucket/Georgetown/Chatham sweatshirts-- we didn't exactly fit in. Nevertheless, I got up the nerve to go talk to the guy at the counter (who had a lip ring, an eyebrow ring and one of those nose rings I associate with South American bulls) and show him the picture of what I wanted. He was surprisingly nice, considering how lame my request was compared to the 8-inch snake he had inked on his bicep.
He told me I would have to come back in a few hours, once they had finished up the "Starry Night" mural they were drawing on some girl's back (WHAT WAS I DOING IN THIS PLACE?!?). So, the five of us trekked our way home in the rain and I twiddled my thumbs until 4 o'clock. During this weird lag time, my sister, my mom and my friends tried to talk me out of doing it. But, because I had already told everyone what I was doing (I'll admit it, for attention), I figured I couldn't chicken out.
Finally, 4pm came around and we all waddled back to M Street in our Hunter boots. The man with the huge ear holes (gauges, I think?) ushered me back into the studio, but informed me that my "posse" would have to wait outside.
Holy. Shit.
So, there I was, all alone in the back of a tattoo parlor lying on a surgical table next to a girl bleeding out of her back in the shape of a Vincent Van Gogh painting. Somehow, though, I managed to go through with it.
It didn't hurt at all, and so far I don't regret it. So far. For anyone who knows me, good luck trying to track it down!
*KIDDING
I've always wanted to get one, but I never really thought about it as a serious possibility. I mean, I'm a little Jewish girl. I have no business being anywhere near a tattoo parlor. But last Friday morning, I decided I was going to do it. Of course, I immediately told everyone I know. Considering I am absolutely terrified of men with tattoos (ironic, right?), I needed to find someone to chaperone me. My guy friends, who are all apparently total babies about needles, thought I was completely full of shit and refused to come with me. So, one rainy, hungover Friday morning, I dragged my four best friends with me to get a tattoo.
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| My Tattoo!* |
He told me I would have to come back in a few hours, once they had finished up the "Starry Night" mural they were drawing on some girl's back (WHAT WAS I DOING IN THIS PLACE?!?). So, the five of us trekked our way home in the rain and I twiddled my thumbs until 4 o'clock. During this weird lag time, my sister, my mom and my friends tried to talk me out of doing it. But, because I had already told everyone what I was doing (I'll admit it, for attention), I figured I couldn't chicken out.
Finally, 4pm came around and we all waddled back to M Street in our Hunter boots. The man with the huge ear holes (gauges, I think?) ushered me back into the studio, but informed me that my "posse" would have to wait outside.
Holy. Shit.
So, there I was, all alone in the back of a tattoo parlor lying on a surgical table next to a girl bleeding out of her back in the shape of a Vincent Van Gogh painting. Somehow, though, I managed to go through with it.
It didn't hurt at all, and so far I don't regret it. So far. For anyone who knows me, good luck trying to track it down!
*KIDDING
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