The Girl Got Inked

Last weekend a friend of mine wanted to get a tattoo. Being an enabler I offered to go with her for moral support. On the way there I contemplated having an old tattoo of mine touched up. You see, I have a tramp stamp. And being as I got this in the late 90's it's a Kanji character. Thank God I didn't get the butterfly, but I came very, very close. I was 18 and living in New York. I had just discovered something and that something was vodka. My roommate came into our room on Valentine's Day, sobbing. It seems her boyfriend had broken up with her that morning right after sex. After hugging her and calming her down she started freaking out about being alone on V-day. I, thinking I was making a funny, funny joke to my very conservative roommate said 'let's get drunk and tattoo'd!' I thought she'd laugh and then go to breakfast with me. Instead her innocent eyes opened wide and she said 'yes please!' jumped up and hugged me. This is how I ended up with a tiny tattoo located on the small of my back. However, since we were broke college students we went to a shady place and my tattoo had faded into an unsightly gray over time. This lead to thinking about getting it touched up.

We walked into the shop and I asked about getting the old one done again. They informed me that the shop had a $100 minimum charge, so if I wanted to get it done again I should really consider getting another one so as to not waste money. And this is how I ended up getting another tattoo. I didn't think it through, it wasn't a long drawn out decision process about permanently changing my body, I just said 'ok, let's do another one then'. I am awesomely responsible.

To keep with the theme I got another Kanji symbol right above the other one. What can I say, I'm creative. Here's the deal, the last tattoo happened at a time when I was more 'plump' (read, 75 lbs heavier). Ergo, the spine was in no way a painful place to get inked. It was just a mildly annoying itch. Now that I have less, let's call it padding, well, it fucking hurt. A lot. Like a lot, a lot. And when he went over the old one? Holy mother of Christ, stop rubbing an open wound with steel wool. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and I contemplated cutting off my own hand to distract myself from the pain. Luckily I chose a tiny character so by the time I reached for the knife, he was done. He handed me my aftercare instructions and sent me on my way. And here's where the real story begins.

You see, for tattoos you need to lotion them every few hours for the first couple of days. The first day I totally forgot and drove to work as per usual. Once there I realized my mistake and rushed to the bathroom and the bottle of lotion kept in there. I had gotten in incredibly early that day so I figured no one was going to come in the bathroom. Crucial error. So there I am, bent at the waist, shirt pulled up around my shoulders, jeans unbuttoned and pulled down rubbing what can only be assumed is my ass when the head of a very important department for the whole company walked in. The look on her face can only be summed up as stunned and then very confused. She asked what I was doing and I rapidly tried to explain that I had gotten another tramp stamp. I also had a moment wherein I tried to decide what was most important, pull down my shirt or pull up my pants? Because I was wearing both sheer underpants and bra. I tried to do both at the same time but was epically unsuccessful. Let's just say she got an eyeful. And could pick me out of a line up without needing to see my face. She nodded and backed into a stall, clearly afraid of the half naked girl holding the bottle of lotion and trying to cover her boobs. I zipped up and bolted back to my office. We haven't been able to make eye contact since.

Good times. But at least my new tattoo is super cute.