I always think I should be writing while I’m driving

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Now before you go calling the police and the State Farm Safe Drivers guy let me assure you, I only think I should combine the two, never have I actually done it. To my knowledge. While the car was in motion. Maybe once or twice at a stop light.

Anyway, the reason for this is simply-I have really great epiphanies while I’m behind the wheel of my little blue car.
I talk to myself. If something is bothering me immensely I tackle it on the 45 minute drive home. I’ve talked myself to tears once or twice. It’s great really, it’s like therapy only I don’t have to pay anyone and I get to play both parts. Obviously I don’t play this game when I’m traveling with other people. That would just be weird. “Hey guys, sorry but I’m going to be talking to myself for the next hour, it’d be really great if you didn’t interrupt. I have progress I need to make.” Not so much.
Lately I’ve not had to utilize my traveling therapy couch for anything pressing so I’ve been covering more interesting causal topics of one-sided conversation. Tonight I tackled the subject of tattoos. I’m not a fan of tattoos. Probably because I’m not a fan of anything involving needles or the word “permanent.” It took me 21 years to dye my hair. I’m not a fan of permanency.  Add to that the fact that my high school was infiltrated with girls who bought themselves “tramp stamps” for their 18th birthday and boys who thought barbed wire armband tattoos made them tough. Add to that my mother swearing up and down that ¾ of those tattoo wearing teens definitely received Hepatitis from the needle that the artist named Butch probably pulled out of a moldy drawer and you can see why I don’t desire any body art. I’m not a fan of commitment, I don’t want to be a part of the barbed wire crowd, and I am afraid of a long painful death caused by a sparrow etched on my hip by a gross biker man.
Also I think most tattoos are trashy by nature. I said “most” so don’t get all Mean Girls on me if you happen to love the ink.
It’s just not my bag. I don’t want one.
That being said, I have my just-in-case tattoo already picked out and the body location decided upon.  Because, and the following situation is entirely within the realm of possibility, what happens if one night I’m stumbling out of a bar with Sazza and we happen to walk by a parlor and she drunkenly exclaims, “Let’s get tattoos!!?”
I’ll tell you what would happen. I would say, “Yea! Good idea! I love you! TattooOOoooos!” And the last thing I’d want to happen would be myself drunkenly picking out some huge butterfly or Chinese symbol that Sazza and I would get inked in identically inappropriate places and then wake up in the morning realizing that I’d have to stare at the huge squiggly symbol that probably means something like “booger” in Chinese on my chest or hip forever.
So I have a plan. My just-in-case-i-jump-off-the-deep-end tattoo plan is thus: my own personal signature symbol on the second toe of my left foot.  Pretty, unique, discrete and totally shameless. I got the toe tattoo idea one day when I was walking around Manhattan on a school trip. While waiting to cross the street I just happened to look down to see a smiley face tattooed on the toe of a woman standing in front of me.  I thought it was a great idea. I mean who really pays that much attention to toes? How easy is it to conceal a toe? What article of clothing would a toe tattoo put in jeopardy? The answers: no one, very, and flip-flops. So there you have it.
Just in case you were wondering.

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