Tit for Tat

Pearl, Sandy Beach, Pink Passion and Valentine. Do these colors sound like me? These are the names of the inks that the tattoo lady mixed up for me this past week. I found them amusing. It was another parallel universe moment for the books - chatting about this year's new crop of television shows while having my nipples tattooed. I was unaware that tattooing was so loud. That is definitely a very buzzy little piece of equipment. It's more than a little disconcerting to have something so buzzy and pokey in such close proximity to my girlee bits! The deed is done. We shall see if the end results are what we hoped for, in a few days. Can't tell yet - I look like I am wearing gauze pasties right now. My fear is that they will be a nasty, Pepto Bismol kind of pink. I do believe we dodged that bullet though, by being proactive. Cut to about a year ago, standing in my bathroom, with my pragmatic, designer husband diligently holding up hundreds of color chips next to my original set. We knew they were going to be removed, therefore we found an almost perfect color match prior to surgery. Soft Mink. I like that one too.

The unveiling will be on Monday, which happens to be my birthday. I turn 349. Of course, that's in dog years. I'm fairly certain that I aged in dog years these past two years. So, 349 is an exaggeration - however, that puts me at around 62. I know I should be grateful to be having this birthday at all, but instead, I am quite salty about the rapid aging thing. Salty is dismissive. I'm upset, depressed, mortified, horrified, shocked, bewildered, distraught, and agitated. I'm still trying to have a sense of humor about it all, but it is challenging, to say the least. My brain hasn't caught up with the physical changes and chemical imbalances. It has a bewildered, WTF kind of look on it's face. My oldest son would argue that that is it's usual look. He makes me laugh. I was about to take my daily barrage of pills one morning recently, when my son walked in and started counting them off as I swallowed them. I looked at him and said, "Breakfast of champions!" He allowed a pregnant pause and then offered, "Breakfast of old people." We had a good chuckle. He's lucky I find that funny.

I'm not ready to accept that this is what I look like now, and be OK with it. I am so impressed with people who can do that. It must be very liberating to be able to let go and accept yourself as you are at any given moment. I keep thinking that there must be something I can do to counteract the process. Survival is good, but living would be even better. I want to feel like I am living again. I plan on finding a personal trainer, and an accupuncturist, and a dermatologist and whatever other kind of "ologist" I might need to push back the ravages of my treatments. I'm not looking for the fountain of youth. I'd be pretty pleased with the fountain of "you look pretty good for being 47!" What am I saying? I am only 46 - for another day and half.

Happy Birthday to me. As whiny as I may sound - I truly am grateful to be here. My family is taking me out to dinner tonight for the big day. I am looking forward to it - in fact, I need to wrap this up so that I can spend a little time taming the Harpo Marx hair I have now. It no longer gets longer - it gets taller. Hey . . . I always wanted to be my grandmothers height, 5' 7". This may very well be my chance! In fact, if I play my cards right, and use a bit of hair product - I may very well be able to pull off the Bride of Frankenstein look for Halloween. Better than last year - I could only pull off looking like a light bulb. See . . . things are looking better already!