on being spontaneous

I'm not a spontaneous person at all. I like events and other activities to be scheduled and written in my planner and iCal for weeks in advance. Hey, my name is Anal-imy. Erm, I mean, Emily. But this weekend, boy oh boy, this weekend we got crazy and spontaneous-y. 

For instance, my planner did not have "get a tattoo" written in for Saturday afternoon. Yet, somehow that is exactly what happened on my Saturday afternoon. (Dad, if you're reading this, you can stop now. Or you can stop after that first paragraph up there---reeewind). 

Thursday night, my mom and I got it into our heads that we needed white tattoos. This was important. I said it was a need, people. Thank ya, Pinterest, for your pretty white tat pictures as inspiration. So Friday came and went and I taught as a per usual planned Friday, but Saturday we were like Buh-bye Plan-ny Nancy, let's get our tats on. 

My mother is a warrior. Seriously, that woman could have lived back in the Game of Thrones time when they amputated limbs without any medicine. She would have just sat there, watched and maybe yawned like this is sooo boring. So, MC gets her tat, sits there smiling and talking, and then it is my turn in the hot seat.

This is MC making a face to be funny. Sure, that's why I was making faces too. Wink wink.

Dun dun dun.

Now, I considered myself to be a tattoo warrior. This is my third tattoo. My second tattoo was on my ribs and that was painful, but bearable. No pain, no gain. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Yadda yadda yadda. I thought, Wrist schmist. Gimme your worst, tattoo boy, because I have a freakin' rib tattoo. 

And Holy Creator of Wrist Tendons, that baby wrist tattoo sucked the bravery right outta me and put my rib tattoo to shame. My little ballerina that lives on my ribs bowed her head in shame and I contorted my face in pain. 

Ow ow ow ow ow. 

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Would I make a 5 year old "Mommy, I got a boo boo" face? In a heartbeat. 

Now that y'all read all of that nonsense I'm sure you're like, Can we see this bad boy that turned you into a BABY?!

Don't you worry your pretty little selves. The white will look a lot cooler when my skin isn't so mad and irritated with me. Right? Right?

No, it is not a Dharma Wheel. Well, maybe it is to you. To me, it is in memory of my grandmother who once told me that "Every time the wheels go 'round we get that much closer." Yes, she was talking about getting closer to the hospital to see my newborn baby sistah girl. But now, looking at life and the funks in which I find myself lately or the anxiety I give myself about not knowing what the next few months will bring, I like to think of that saying as the wheels carrying me on. Carrying me away from the hard weeks and towards the good weeks. I wrote about her unexpected death last August here. She was a pretty fabulous lady and, funny enough, could have cared less for tattoos. The whole time I was writhing in pain I was thinking, You don't even like tattoos, Miss Momma!

Still worth it. 

Will I miss spontaneous tattoo trips when I go back to being a grown-up and living in my house in Atlanta now that performing in Spamalot is over? In a heartbeat. 

This is me and Ann bidding Spamalot farewell. Cry face.

So, free time...what do I do with you again?

Happy Monday, y'all.