I want a tattoo. I do, really. Ex-boyfriends, present husband and my pal Ravi know I do. They also know how scared I am of needles. How does one reasonably cowardly woman reconcile this paradox? Because I really do want a tattoo.
V even got me a fantastic design. And he wants me to get a tattoo, so I can always blame him for it afterwards. Particularly to the parents (although the Ma-in-law seems to have ceased to care whether we exist, except for the food we consume.) But back to the tattoo. I tried getting one, in Singapore last year. I still harbour suspicions that Ravi sneakily played on my fears and got me out of it -- but the point is that my skin's still unmarked except by the regulation stretch marks and pimples.
The Compulsive Confessor writes of her tattoo. Describes the pain etc. Unfortunately, she also compares it to waxing underarms which is something I wouldn't even do at knife-point. (I'm less scared of guns.) All these contradictions are not very helpful. Besides, why can't you have a tattoo when you're pregnant? Of course, that gives me another excellent reason to push it back a little longer. But (and picture me wailing this, even as that woman was wont to wail for her demon lover) I really want a tattoooo...
As always, I'm at work and have nothing to do. Am almost longing for the 'training period' to end so I can sink myself into some real work. I know I will wish to retract that soon enough, but for the moment let it stand. To give you an idea of how I'm spending the time now:
I have surfed through new blogs every day for the last four days, including checking my favourites (see right) for fresh updates. I have gone so far as to mentally bad-mouth these regulars for not updating enough to give me fresh reads every half hour or so. I'm not unreasonable. I know they need time to write.
I have gone through South-East Asian recipes. Theoretically, I can now make excellent fried rice, not to mention lemon orange chicken.
I have blogged twice daily for a good few days now, because I have all the time in the world to think of things to write about -- and to actually write about them then. I thought of plenty more, if you're wondering, but resisted the urge.
I have slept. In office.
I have run for my coffee break almost before the hour has struck, and stayed on till the last possible second.
I have brooded over my family life (although I admit that was a short-lived phase, ending as soon as the page I was waiting for loaded).
I have caught up with my correspondence.
I have actually completed the research for a couple of columns as well as the writing of one days and weeks before any of them are due.
I am seriously contemplating getting down to the literary reviews as well.
The last two will be a clear indication to anybody who has ever shared their lives with me as to just how much time I have. Normally I share Douglas Adams' attitude to deadlines, right down to loving the sound they make as they go whooshing by. And these people who have been lucky enough to share my life have witnessed my transformation from my usual lazy, grinning self into a homicidal maniac who's willing to hurl heavy objects at anybody foolish enough to disturb her as the deadline is warming up on the runway, preparatory to whooshing by.
Anybody who wants to go with me for a tattoo please leave a message here. I could do with support. V offered, but said I had to get mine done first. I conclude I've married a greater coward than I am myself.
NOTE: I tried linking directly to CC's post, the tattoo one, but for some reason I couldn't get the entire post on the link. It's easy to find though, just scroll down till you find one titled "Beauty is skin deep. A tattoo goes all the way to the bone" (author unknown)".