I normally avoid wearing tank tops without anything covering it up. It’s not because I’m super vain and worry about my jiggly arm fat. Nope. It’s because I’m too lazy to shave my armpits, and I don’t want to expose anyone to that.
The positive (or negative, depending on point of view) is that a bunch of my tattoos show.
As I’m walking out of Wal-Mart, the greeter stops me. It’s a little old guy, white hair, wrinkles, stubble. He says, “I hope you don’t think I’m being rude…” So I immediately assumed that he was about to be rude. Instead, he said, “Where did you get that tattoo?”
Okay. We got into a conversation about tattoos, and he told me that his wife was 60, but she just got her first tattoo because a friend of hers died, and she got a pink ribbon on her arm, and now she wants more. He told me that she said they’re addictive.
I agreed. Yup.
I was about ready to get out of there, so I tried to leave politely, telling him that I hoped his wife got more tattoos, and that I suggested he get some, too.
He told me he didn’t need any tattoos because he already had enough scars.
He pointed to his head, where I noticed that there was a dent. “This one cost one billion dollars!”
“And then I got another one going from here on up from when I had a tumor. And I have one from here to here when I had a quadruple bypass.”
“Let me show you.”
And he lifted his shirt.
Pointed to his stomach, his hairy chest, his throat.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s really interesting. Have a good day!”
And I was gone.
Next time, it’s Target.