I Can't Believe I Did That

My midlife crisis didn't hit until I turned 65. As a birthday present to myself that year, I decided to get a tattoo. A wolf. On my ankle. Looking back, I can't believe I did that.

Why a wolf? Because I love wolves. We actually raised two wolves from the age of 6 weeks to a year old. (Source: Wolf Rescue Program in the foothills.) The female was the runt of the pack and we named her Albertine. Her brother was named Mano (with a tilde over the n). They now live together on a beachside ranch just south of Ensenada, Mexico. She had been neutered, but he had not, and I understand he has fathered more than a few litters.

My favorite book is Women Who Run With the Wolves, and a representation of that on my ankle, for some reason, seemed like a good idea back when I turned 65. Please understand, I knew nothing about tattoos. Like the fact that getting one hurts like hell? Once I found that out, I swore "Never again!" even though I was pleased with the ankle art after I came out of shock.

So close to four years have gone by and today I decided my little critter needed a touch up. THIS TIME I used a little self-hypnosis! Damn, why didn't I think of that the first time? It still wasn't my idea of a good time, but I survived with far less anguish, and now my little wolf looks livelier AND has a setting sun behind him to make him more distinct from a distance! When my next birthday hits in September, I can prop my foot up and admire the artwork, drink a toast to Albertine, Mano, Clairissa Pinkola Estes (author of WWRWTW), and the tattoo artist.

His name is Rob, but I told him I'm going to call him "Almost".... because everytime he paused during the process, I asked, "Are we done?" and his answer was always the same. "Almost." I can't swear I'll never see him again, because he's marrying my granddaughter. I like him very much, but why couldn't she have landed a massage therapist????