Patty’s Tattie

Bill and I were getting ready to go to the pool and I was wandering through the house in my bathing suit, filling our go-cups with Crystal Lite and bagging up some Cheeze Doodles for munching.  I had made my way through the living room and was heading for the kitchen, when a sudden shriek stopped me in my tracks.

“Patty Ann!  What on earth is that on your back?”

Fearing a black widow or scorpion had landed on me, I started turning around like a dog chasing its tail, frantically brushing at my shoulders.

“Where?  Where?” I yelled.  “What is it?  A bug?”

“No,” she answered.  “It’s a picture of something.”

I stopped twirling and breathed a sigh of relief.  “Do you mean my tattoo?”  It’s on my right shoulder blade and is about 2 inches around.

“Yes.  When in the world did you get that?  Have you lost your mind?”

“Mom,” I answered.  “I’ve had it for years.”

“No you haven’t,” she argued.  “I’d have noticed it before.”

“You have,” I replied.  “Every time you walk in on me when I’m getting dressed you ask about it.  And every time I tell you the same thing.  I got it one time when we were at our timeshare in the Cayman’s.  I was 56 and having a post-mid-life-getting-older-and-fatter crisis.  It’s the same year I learned how to dive.”

“And you’re lucky you didn’t get eaten by a shark!”

“I know, Mom, they’re lurking everywhere just waiting to eat over weight, middle-aged, novice SCUBA divers,” I said sarcastically.

“Well, I think tattoos are ridiculous,” she snorted.  “What’s it supposed to be?”

“It’s a Butterfly Fish and Bill designed it and I like it.”

“And what’s it going to look like when you’re old and wrinkled?”

“I don’t know, Mom.  Maybe it’ll turn into a Flounder!”

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