12 Years Later...

I hit my rebellious phase in August of 1994. I was 17 and my friends and I had just met some Marines at one of our beach outings. My parents forbid me to date the MAN OF MY DREAMS THAT I LOVE YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE and I immediately rendered them incapable of having a soul. Thus my senior year began what I'll call the "Dark Ages."



In my most brillant moment of 18 year old independence, I decided to get a tattoo. Because my friend had gotten one, and she was a rebel. And by golly, I was a rebel, too. I picked out a flower design on a whim and ask the tatt guy to repeatedly stick a needle in my right butt cheek. I remember going home with my saran wrapped bottom and staring in the mirror for minutes at a time. It was such fun being a secret rebel. Until I told my brother about it.



My brother threatened to spill the beans several times. He's a big talker that way. And then there was the time I was admitted to the hospital and I was sure the backless gown shared my secret with my mother. I don't remember the exact moment that I was exposed, but I know my mom was more than a little disappointed. However, what could she do?



Fast forward to this past weekend, in 2008 in case you aren't sure what year we're in. Throughout the couple of days there I am picking up toys, wrestling on the ground with Dirty Job, petting the dog, moving my brother into his new place, etc. Apparently, my dad had never gotten the memo about my tatt, because he very calmly mentioned my "champ stamp." In all the hubbub, I obviously didn't wear a belt and my tatt is pretty high on my buns. One false move on the low rise and see what happens?



My friends, be sure your sins will find you out.







*As a footnote, I do not believe my tattoo is a sin, I do however know that my rebeliousness was.