A TATTOO? At YOUR age?

It started as a prank.  

My husband loves them. The first Christmas I spent with him and his kids, he rented a Santa Claus outfit. Around 2 a.m., after we finished wrapping the presents and setting them under the tree, he stuffed the costume with newspaper and laid it on the sofa. He placed it with the “face” turned into the sofa. For his own amusement, he scattered a couple of beer bottles on Santa’s belly and an empty box of cookies on the coffee table. We stumbled to bed.

Joe was about seven then, so of course he crept down the stairs in the middle of the night to check on the presents. When his flashlight revealed a strange Santa Claus on the sofa, he fled back upstairs to grab two things: his sister and a baseball bat. Together they tiptoed downstairs. Then Joe took the baseball bat and slammed it into the guy’s midsection. The guy didn’t move. So Joe slammed him again. That time, crumpled newspaper flew out from under Santa’s belly. We woke, about 4 a.m., to the kids giggling hysterically. It was great.

Another time Michael rented a gorilla suit. Anne was having three friends over for a sleep-over birthday party, and they’d taken over the family room to watch movies. About 9 p.m., Joe and I stationed ourselves on the stairs, where we could see into the family room. Meanwhile, Michael donned the gorilla costume and slipped out the front door. Then Gorilla Man appeared in the backyard. He danced around outside the window and made gorilla grunts until one of the girls looked up. Her eyes went wide. She pointed and screamed. There were a few minutes of chaos and hubbub until Michael doffed the gorilla’s head and revealed himself. Then, of course, everyone had to try on the suit.

Fast forward six months. Anne was off at summer camp, and one of her letters arrived. It went something like this: “Dear Dad and Nancy, We took some great hikes this week, and I’m getting used to vegetarian food again. Yesterday it rained all day, and we were bored, so our counselor took us to town. We had walked around town, but there wasn’t much there to do, so we decided to all get nose-rings. The place was really clean, and my nose hasn’t gotten infected . . . .”

Michael jumped like he’d been jolted with an electric prod. He called his ex and asked whether she’d given Anne permission to get a nose-ring.  Her reply was “WHAT?!?!?” Michael’s next call was to the camp director. She was out of the office. Using his most intimidating “judge” voice, Michael explained to whoever was taking messages what Anne had told him—and how displeased Anne’s parents were.

After some confusion, of course, it emerged that Anne had pranked him. The following Monday, his entire chambers staff showed up to work with fake nose rings.

The idea of a tattoo developed slowly. Several years ago, Michael saw a Celtic band worn by the exceedingly cool son of some friends. Being Scots and Swedish by heritage, he loved the Viking/Celtic look of it. Both kids reacted with horror to the idea, but that just added spice to the idea. What made him pause were their descriptions of the actual process of getting a tattoo–in particular, the pain involved.

Every winter after that, on our annual five-day break in Key West, we would walk by the tattoo parlors in the honkytonk part of town and contemplate getting temporary tattoos. We agreed that fake tattoos would be a fine and fitting way to prank the kids.

Last year—our first year of being retired—we decided it was Time to Act. We cruised up and down Duval Street, examining the booths. We finally picked one staffed by the least scary-looking person we could find. (She turned out to be a charming young Israeli on a “gap” year between her military service and nursing school.) We asked a few cautious questions.

          How long do temporary tattoos last? A few weeks, if you’re careful.

          Are they henna? Not these. They’re actual ink, just laid on top rather than inked in.

          Does it hurt? Not at all.

          Would they look like real tattoos? Once the ink settled in, yes.

Michael, naturally, chose something as close to a Celtic band as he could get. I selected an elaborate design of flowers and a butterfly for my calf. The young woman went to work. We vibrated with nerves and excitement. Then we went home, being careful for the next few hours not to smear the ink. After that, our tattoos were “set.”

As a prank, it was a failure. The kids were not fooled. (They’re grown-ups now, and they know their dad.) But Michael loved the way his arm looked with the band, and I loved the way my flowers and butterfly twined between the hem of my capris and the strap of my sandals.  

A month or so after we got back home, Michael decided that he wanted to do something to mark his transition from The-judge-who-writes-novels to The-novelist-who-occasionally-does-some-judging. A tattoo, with its whiff of tough-guy decadence, seemed a perfect way to signal his descent from the bench. So we got the name of a reputable tattoo parlor in town and went for a consultation.

It was a kick. As someone who had never been in a tattoo parlor before, I felt like an anthropologist observing a new tribe’s customs and art. Rings and studs for piercings occupied long glass cases, sample tattoos decorated the walls, and customers flooded in and out like the tides. The funniest part was watching the clientele watch us. The twenty-somethings nudged each other with indulgent smiles. Oh, look at that cute old couple, they seemed to be saying.

Once again, we asked cautious questions.

            Does one have to choose an existing design? No, the tattooist could design one. (In fact, Michael wound up choosing to imitate the Celtic band on his wedding ring.)

            Would it hurt? A little, but the forearm area usually doesn’t hurt too much. (That was true. Michael said it felt like something tapping on his arm most of the time, though occasionally it felt like he was tweezering out a hair.)

            How much did it cost? A perfectly reasonable amount, it turned out.

            How long did it take? Between one and two hours for a band.

He chose to go forward. He loves it. When he needs to look professional, he rolls down his left sleeve and covers it up. When he’s out mowing the lawn, he feels very cool indeed.

When Covid is under control, will I follow his lead? Will I let a vine curve its way up my calf?

Maybe not.

On the other hand, maybe so.