I'm all tatted up. A tiny Incredible Hulk decorates my left bicep. Look how hip I am!
Okay, okay, he's a temporary tattoo. The Boy got it in some birthday party favor cornucopia a few weeks ago, and I thought it would be somewhat hilarious to paste it on my own mudflap of an arm. I didn't slap it on the Boy because there was an excellent chance that he would freak out about it, and I have NO idea what "temporary" means in this instance. It would be more appealing to burn off my eyelashes than watch the Boy scratch at the tat until it came off.
Since I became the Illustrated Woman, though, the weather in the Mid-Atlantic has been delightful. Which means that one could (and should) wear sleeveless shirts under cardigans or some such. Here's the pickle: my office gets magma-hot sometimes (the HVAC system can't keep up with the weather). And in those moments I would like to shed my sweater. BUT I CAN'T BECAUSE THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW MY INCREDIBLE HULK SHAME.
Ugh. I just want the thing gone, but several showers and steel wool sponge baths later, it's still there. I always knew that I wasn't that tattoo sort. Not because I favor a Pottery Barn-ish style of living, but because there isn't much that has been such a constant in my life that I can see permanently decorating myself with it. I mean, sheesh, if I went with what I loved at 14, I'd probably have a big fat Depeche Mode logo on my ankle. At 24, something John Cusack-y, like the outline of Lloyd Dobbler holding up the boom box in 'Say Anything.'
Cringing. I would be cringing if I had to stare at those images on my vessel.