Isaac asked if he could stick a tattoo on me yesterday morning and I said yes, and the result was this, in the space between the waistband of my jeans and the bottom of my shirt. I forgot about it until I got to the gym this morning and there it was, a fierce tiger’s head smiling out from my midriff in between squats. “I love your tattoo!” one of the women in the exercise class told me, and it took me a moment to realize that she wasn’t joking. The truth is, I like it too, even if it is slightly off centre in relation to my navel. I’ve been pondering a new tattoo; don’t have a particularly clear idea about the specifics but I know I want it to be big and visible (as opposed to the too-timid foray I made into the world of ink with my first one, only a couple inches square and obscured by a bra strap). Maybe I’ll just buy sheets and sheets of temporary tats and let Isaac go nuts until we figure out what sticks for reals.
In the meantime, I’m figuring my Pap test on Friday just got a little livelier.