When my kids and I went to Saturday Market, I bought something for my garden.  My daughter got a henna tattoo.  It lasts for a couple weeks, then it either goes away, or you can remove it with baby oil.

          I was tempted to get a tattoo, myself. 

          Know why I didn’t? 

          I want a permanent tattoo.

          Yep.  I want a big, colorful, naughty—by some of my friends’ standards, anyway—”painting” on my body.  By naughty, I’m not talking about naked women—or in my case, naked men.  I mean drastic.  A midievel dragon, or a mini galaxy of planets, with novas and comets chasing each other down my arm. 

           But I keep putting it off.  After all, when you’ve got kids in their 20’s, you’re not supposed to do things like get tattoos.  You’re supposed knit afghans, and garden.  I don’t knit.  I don’t have the patience.  But I do crochet afghans.  And I garden.  Okay, I’m officially a nice old lady.  Well, a nice 51-year old.  I still don’t feel old.  Anyway—

            Now I want my tattoo.

            Maybe I’ll start with something small, like the design on the mudflaps of my bike: a rose with lightning shooting through it.  No, I think I’ll go with the planets.  Or should it be the dragon?

            NOW I remember why I’ve taken so long to get a tattoo…