Wow, I don’t even know where to start. It happened so suddenly really.
We’d planned a quick trip to the zoo this morning. A “touch and go” we called it. Then in the afternoon I was to write a quick little “how-to-make a Michelada” post. I promise to get to the beer for breakfast part of the story, but first I just need to tell you what it feels like to see your daughter covered in gorilla crap.
As I’ve written here before, I don’t like the zoo. Not only the zoo here in Mexico, but any zoo. I don’t discriminate. I won’t drone on and on about it more than I already have, just know I don’t like the zoo anymore today than I did yesterday. In fact, I probably like it less. But we have visiting friends (Dani and her baby from Wisconsin) and my kids like the zoo, so it was on this week’s “places to go and things to see” list.
So, we were at the zoo. The zoo my kids love (in particular the zoo train) because they’re able to get really close to the animals’ cages, in particular the monkeys and gorillas. They’re housed in out-door cages within feet from the viewing areas. This close proximity to these animals appeals to small children who need to be continuously reminded, “Let me hold your hand so it doesn’t get bitten off.” Because I’m serious, they could be bitten off. So we’re standing a “safe” distance away from the gorilla cage. There are two gorillas sitting and facing outward looking at us. My kids and I are sharing this moment with these gorillas and I’m like, “Wow, this is why people like the zoo.” We’re eye to eye with these gorillas, and their stares are so pensive. I’m remembering things I’d read about Jane Goodall and her work with gorillas, and I’m connecting with these gorillas. I’m so in awe of God’s creatures and evolution and the significance of the gorilla…and then I notice it.
My Dad came and visited us in Mexico. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say he came to visit his family and NOT to visit Mexico. I make this statement based on several observations. This is a man who wears khakis and loafers with socks to the beach. The same man who married a woman (my mother) from Ft. Lauderdale and convinced her to move AWAY from the ocean, inland to Wisconsin. But I’m telling you, in all fairness to the guy, he came all the way down here, to a place so close to the white hot sun that his fair skinned body was always just moments, MOMENTS, away from blistering, just to visit us.
He is not a “beachy” kind of guy and he says things like, “I’m counting five of you going into the ocean and I’m doing a head count when you all get back out.” And, “Is this the safe part of the ocean?” I think there’s some kind of shark phobia going on here. If I were speaking to you instead of writing, I’d have whispered that last sentence because God help me if my kids were to over hear and adopt that phobia. My kids with a shark phobia would suck all the damn hot, sandy fun right out of the beach for Ben and me.
Short story long, while he was here, the time spent swimming was done so from the safety of our pool. In the “safe” part of the pool where Ben and I don’t feed the sharks (anymore). So, we’re in the pool one morning and my Dad looks over at my upper arm and says in a really excited, happy tone, “Meredith, I think your tattoo is disappearing.” He tried masking his enthusiasm, a little. But really, did I ever expect my parents to embrace my tattoo? The tattoo of a large, once vividly blue fish on the front of my bicep tattoo? These are my PARENTS. These are not people. They are parents. Repeat. Repeat. Memorize for future use.
When I think back to the afternoon I unveiled the tattoo to my parents, shortly after getting it, I only really recall the startled looks on their faces. That, and my mother gasping, “Oh God it’s so BIG.” It was, IS big. I think what she was trying to say through her gasping was, “It’s not a little heart on your ankle, or a rose on your shoulder blade.” She’s right, it’s not one of those tattoos. It’s more like how the guy at the tattoo shop described it that day. Now how did he say it? Oh yeah, “That’s a ballsy first tattoo.”
Warning sign.
Warning sign.
Rethink size and placement Meredith. Hello? Where are you? Wake up Meredith! But if my parents didn’t like the finished product they should’ve seen it the morning after I’d had it done. This is a rendering of what my tattoo looked liked after “Draft Number One.”
draft number one - looking like a wiener
Well, it didn’t look like a fish so much as, well, I’ll just say I wasn’t going to walk around with a “wiener” on my arm from here to eternity. So back to the tattoo shop for “Draft Number Two.”
draft number two - with fins and less like a wiener
That was 14 or so years ago. My Dad’s correct, my tattoo is disappearing. It began with my first and only laser removal treatment. OH. MY. GOD – did that hurt! They burn off the tattoo, and then really indescribable things happen to the first few layers of your skin, and then you wear large bandages to your friends’ country club pool. The same country club pool where your 9 month old baby’s shit flies out of her diaper, arcing through the air, only to finally splatter into the water. That same country club pool.
After making it past the agonizing “two to three week healing process” I called it quits on those treatments. Actually, after “Draft Number Two” I was content with the tattoo itself. I just never could make peace with the vivid blue color. So the one laser treatment was worthwhile. The neon blue is gone and replaced with a more muted tone. I attribute the additional fading to age. Age is having its way with me and everything drawn on me; age and its evil twin, the sun, are nudging along the disappearing act.
Post Script:
I have no regrets. Getting my tattoo was impulsive, like me. Wearing it reminds me of this. I should try being a little more Zen. But I loved tattoos 14 years ago, and still think they’re pretty cool today. I may even get more; although you’ll never see them. I would be a little choosier about its location this time around. Probably wouldn’t chose its exact placement based on the sleeve length of the shirt I happen to be wearing the day I’m inked. I kid you not; this was how I determined its placement. Again, rethink size and placement Meredith. Hello? Where are you? Wake up Meredith!
Because tattoos are like real estate: location, location, location.
