Reconsider that sun/anus tattoo

 

In my opinion, most tattoos from the 90’s fall into three categories: stupid, clichéd and lucky.

Stupid
Is Yosemite Sam waving pistols on your shoulder blade? How’s that dolphin on your ankle? Maybe you’re a huge fan of turtles or geckos (at least when you’re picking a shabby drawing off the wall of a seedy tattoo shop.) Winnie the Pooh. Nothing else needs to be said about that. Are you a part-time dragon slayer? Maybe you’re rocking some ink in honor of your last kill? Sorry to my beautiful husband on that one. 15 years later he agrees that was choice he’d like to rethink. 19 year old boys should NEVER be allowed to 1: buy furniture (because they all think they’re decorating the set of Scarface) 2: get married 3: pick out a tattoo. None of those ever turn out well. Picture that zit faced ‘man’ lounging on his black pleather couch, next to his child bride, showing off the name “Crystal” that he just got in Old English across his neck. All sound ideas.

Clichéd
So Creed already had a lead singer, but you could still get a ‘tribal’ design around your bicep. Maybe a kokopelli is playing the flute on your muffin top? You just bought The Rosetta Stone to learn Chinese and been through some rough times, so why wouldn’t you plaster the symbols for strength, faith and patience on your…..on your…anything and everything. I’m not sure if the beloved tramp stamp falls into the stupid or clichéd category. If a giant butterfly is flying out of your crack, there’s a good chance you’re double dipping in both. The trend in fashion is really screwing a lot of 33-41 year old respectable women. Low rise jeans and just one poorly timed crouch is a sure way to ‘out’ your hidden ass antlers. She looked so nice in her sweater set, capris and ballet flats; then she bent over to tie Johnny’s shoe and a rainbow covered in ivy, squiggly lines and tropical (yet sad) flowers jumped off her back and punched me in the face.

Lucky
You know who they are; the rare breed of folks that got it right. I envy them. We don’t even need to get into it.

Don’t get me wrong, I like tattoos. A guy sporting tasteful sleeve is hot business; a guy with a Greatful Dead Bear on his calf, well, you do the math. I can poke fun, because, you see, I’m one of the dipshits that double dipped in the first two columns. It was 1996 and I was a senior. One of those seniors that turned 18 in December and got to do stupid shit like buy cigarettes and get tattoos. So I did both. You can quit smoking but you can’t quit a tribal sun on the side of your calf. I was going big, people. Why put it on my ankle where a sock could save me from later humiliation? No, get it out there. Wear it loud, wear it proud.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, here’s the real rub. 17 years later, it looks like an asshole more than a sun. I wish I was kidding. I work with assholes and not in the figurative sense, like ‘my boss is a real dick’. Nope. I work in an asshole clinic. So when I say my tattoo looks like an asshole, I mean it. And what’s better? It doesn’t even have the benefit of looking like a healthy asshole. It looks painful and mad, like it needs treatment and some professional TLC. Awesome. That’s the look I was going for.
 

I know there are things I could do to at least partially remedy the situation. Laser treatment? What if it just fades to a discolored shadow of an anus? A cover-up? Clearly I can’t be trusted to pick something that will remain a good idea until I’m in my 80’s. Luckily I live in Oregon. Nine months out of the year no one sees my pasty, anus dotted leg, except my husband. And he’s rocking a dragon, so what can he say? Off and on from July through September, I feel the judgment from sensible, smarter women. That is, until that snob bends over and flashes the world her ass crack disaster. Suck it, Business Casual! Me and my anus leg are on to you!

 

(And to be clear, friends and family….all if your body art is beautiful and totally unique. I’m not talking about you. I swear.)

1996 called. It wants its asshole sun tattoo back.