When I was 25, I got pregnant, got engaged, had a miscarriage, and then, even though I knew it was a mistake, got married.
I had always said I wasn’t going to take my husband’s last name if I ever got married, but for some reason I changed my mind.
My marriage lasted approximately 17 minutes.
Once the divorce was finalized, I went back to my maiden name.
Being young and impulsive and stupid, I decided it would be a good idea to get a tattoo of my initials.
On my left boob.
I basically monogrammed myself.
At the time, 20 years ago, it was a cute little tattoo. It was probably 3/4″ from top to bottom.
Now, at 45, after lots of kids and lots of breastfeeding and just lots of, well, gravity, it’s not so little or so cute.
It’s probably doubled in length at this point.
The other day I was teaching a swim lesson to a four-year-old. The top of my stretched out tattoo was peeking out from my suit.
The four-year-old pointed at it and said,”Why is that there?”
“Because I wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time,” I told him.
To which he replied, “You should have just gotten a sticker.”
I didn’t really know what to say other than, “I really wish you had been around 20 years ago.”
And if you are a young twenty-four-year-old contemplating a tattoo, remember these three words: location, location, location.