I recently went shopping with a friend for a mother-of-the- bride dress. She was worried about going sleeveless because her upper arms didn’t look like Kelly Ripa’s.
Besides the fact Ripa could stand to eat a sandwich and take a day off from the gym, being that slender and buff is just not realistic for most of us.
Still, I understand Mother-of-the-Bride’s feelings. I’ll bet most women of a certain age feel insecure about their upper arms –AKA Bat-Wings. I know I do.
We all want to look our best. And if we can’t look like paragons of beauty, at least we can keep it classy.
I’m going to go out on a limb here (ba-da-bing) and bet this tattoo goes bad in about 10-15 years…
Anyway, a couple of weeks later, I was a bit perplexed when I saw a woman come into Panera Bread with the word SEXY tattooed on her generous upper arm. It was written in tall, French Script font with lots of curly letters.
I guess that made it classier than, say, a nice, plain Times New Roman font.
I’m glad that woman has no self-esteem issues, but seriously? WTH?
I week later, I was on my way to Walmart (yeah, I know, not as classy as Target, but it is what it is.)
At a red light, I pulled up next to a black Crown Victoria with white lettering across the tinted back windshield that read, Fucking Classy. Are you kidding me?
I guess they thought that since the message was in faux-cursive, children couldn’t read it.
Or, more likely, they didn’t give a flying F-F-F-F-Ford.
Later, in the check-out line, there was a woman in front of me who was built like a battleship. As she unloaded her cart, I couldn’t help but notice that lightning does strike twice.
The woman had the word SEXY tattooed on her upper arm. Was this some sort of club? Like the Red Hat Society but with more commitment? And more confusion?
So I started looking for Ashton Kutcher. Am I being punked?
I always thought SEXY was in the eye of the beholder.
Kind of like back in the day when my mom and her best friend were young women strutting their stuff in the city of Minneapolis.
As two men passed them on the sidewalk, one expressed his admiration for their beauty.
The other man snapped at his friend, “You’ve got taste for shit.”
While many females would have been offended by the comment, these two young women howled with laughter. Apparently, the two guys passing by weren’t attractive to them either.
So, at any rate, I wasn’t born to Generation Tattoo.
I don’t have a problem with them, but I do think one should carefully consider the ramifications of the message and its placement before making a lifetime commitment.
Case in point:
I remember having a student who tattooed her name in the area of her chest where a necklace would hang. This was when tattoos were just coming into vogue, but not so much at the high school-level yet.
I asked my salty, old department chair why he thought the girl tatted her name to her chest.
Without skipping a beat, Gene said, “That’s so the guy she’s doing knows what name to call out.”