Tattoos aren’t just for everyday fools

It’s time to sit down, call your friends and tell them you’re in jail.

It’s April Fools’ Day, which I personally consider one of the lamest holidays, topped only by a small assortment like Sweetest Day and Grandparents’ Day. Why? Because all during high school I had my friends trying to think up creative pranks to pull on me in order to prove to me what a great holiday it was. I think the most memorable event was when they superglued my locker lock so that I had to get the janitor, whom we called “Cro-Magnon Man,” to open it up. Boy, that was funny.

Hopefully, we’ve all changed from our younger school days, though I’ve noticed some people’s maturity stopped growing back in the days of grade school when you could find excitement in opening up the pages of a “Dynamite” magazine to read things like, “Isn’t it a bummer … when your parents worship Satan?” Ok, so it never quite said that, but that would have been more entertaining.

I have changed a lot since high school, mostly on account of my little marketing buddy Babette. She convinced me to do all the things I always wanted to, like cut all my hair and pierce my ears a few more times. She also bought me the most original Christmas present I’ve ever received. The gift that keeps on giving: a tattoo.

This, believe it or not, does tie in with April Fools’ Day. No, it’s not a joke. For the first time, my parents agreed on something. They both, on separate occasions in two different states, called me a fool. Although that’s all my dad basically said, my mother’s version was preceded by a shriek and followed by over a year now of “I think it’s fading. Is it fading? I think it’s fading.” No, mom, it’s not.

Tattoos are not for everyone. Babette has two, so I basically knew what was going to happen. I chose where I wanted to have it (on my ankle), and I drew the design myself, deciding on symbols that mean something to me. An ankh (immortality), a German cross (power), a ying-yang (harmony) and a peace sign. I wasn’t exactly prepared for the tattooist to be the size of Montana, keeping my ankle still by keeping my foot between two stomach rolls, but everything was fine. Only the outline was slightly painful, and no, I wasn’t drunk because if you get drunk beforehand, it will bleed a lot more. Mmmmm.

For anyone who is considering a tattoo, think a lot about it. Be sure new needles are used, go to a reputable tattooist, beware that tattoos can be addicting and be prepared for people to stare and ask questions, many of them annoying and dumb (the questions that is … and perhaps the people, too).

Looking back on pictures of myself from my senior year of high school is a scary experience. The long, chlorine-blonded, spiral-permed big hair (one of the biggest all-time fashion crimes, up there with bangs defying gravity and Forenza sweaters worn backwards) the pink matching Guess outfit, the purple eyeshadow, the pink clip in my hair … I’m so ashamed. Yet now I know that no matter what I look like, I’ll always have my tattoo. I have never regretted it. Yes, I realize it may be a little hard to explain to my grandchildren, but at least I can say that in a city that banned tattooing, I lived a little.