Jessica Dillon, my baby, my first-born, my little girl who thought the moon followed her at night because her hair was (is) beautiful, got inked yesterday. Yup, ladies and germs, my daughter went and got herself a tattoo. She’s been wanting one for a while, a long while to be inexact.
Each time she inquired, begged, promised me favors that would never be carried out, I said the same thing, “When you are 18 and can pay for it yourself, you may get a tattoo. Now go scrub the cinders around the fireplace.”
I have not seen said tattoo yet. She is visiting my mother in San Diego, my mother who is already offering to have the thing lasered off, and the sneaky woman/child had it done there. She chose an infinity symbol followed by an ellipsis. I think she’s going for irony.
You might assume her permanent-body-marking actions bother me but then you would make an ass out of you and me because I am unconcerned. She didn’t commit a crime, bowl poorly on national television, or fall off her shoes and break her ankle. Plus, the slight fact that I have my own tramp stamp, applied at the grand old age of 35 whilst going through an I’m-getting-old crisis, gives me negative ammunition even if I wanted to fight her. That whole “do what I say, not what I do” argument doesn’t fly with my intelligent, authority-challenging girl.
The rest of the family, on the other hand, does not share my nonchalance. For you Jane Austen readers out there, it’s as if poor stupid Lydia eloped with Mr. Wickham all over again and, for that, we are all ruined. I’m not sure if David’s big brother will ever recover. I think he felt personally responsible for our shame and even offered to reimburse Jessica’s deposit money if she would change her unchangeable mind and retain her pristine flesh. Like that was going to happen. I’ve lived with the child for almost 19 years now; she’s nothing if not stubborn.
Today we welcome the return of the prodigal daughter, heads held high, ignoring the stares of those Lucases down the street (Jane Austen again, sorry). I hope I will like the tattoo. If not, c’est la vie. Worse things have (and do) happen.