Fat Tom, the devil, and a Tattoo Parlor
St. Francis said it best, “Evangelize always; use words when necessary.” I love that quote so much that I am updating it free of charge for the 21st century: “Evangelize always; use tattoos when necessary.” That’s right, I am blogging this post while I am getting inked (I feel so cool saying this that I think I might just go by the Harley shop and pick up a Hog after I’m done here).
I know it sounds pretty cool, but the reality is I have two choices right now: 1. Blog or 2. Scream for my Mommy. So I am blogging very quickly and not even thinking about the guy driving needles into my skin. What pain??? Okay, I am a big fat sissy I will admit it. MOMMY!!!!! As I hold back tears he tells me, “Okay, I think I am done sketching it and if you think you’ll be okay, I’m going to try to use the actual needle now.”
My fear of needles all started when I was a kid. I was the sickly kid who always had his nose running in everyone else’s’ cereal. My parents used to have to take me to get an allergy shot every week. I actually did fine on those until one time they sent me for a blood test. The nurse kept missing my vein and after about 8 tries my Dad grabbed another nurse…who found it on her first try. That was about 30 years ago and I have hated needles and veins ever since (when my wife is feeling especially cruel, she blocks my veins just for fun).
My fear of needles quickly becomes apparent when I donate blood. I haven’t actually passed out yet, but I must get as white as a ghost as even other donors will ask, “Buddy are you okay?” When I tell them I will be fine they always say the same thing, “then would you mind letting go of my hand?” The nurses ask why I donate blood if I hate needles so much. That seems like a dumb question to me. If it saves lives, who cares if I get a little squeamish and amorous with the stranger next to me? What doesn’t seem like a dumb question to me is the obvious one: tattoos don’t save anyone, so what in the heck am I doing in this place??? Hmmm…
Well, right now I am lying face down on a bed similar to the ones masseuses use. One of my favorite bands when I was in high school, Suicidal Tendencies, is screaming over the speakers about being…um…messed with subliminally. The guy in the bed across from me (who is getting a tattoo of the devil on his thigh) is in a deep discussion with his English tattoo artist about whether it should be called a vacation or a holiday like they call it in England (technically they are discussing if it should be called a “F’ing vacation” or a “F’ing holiday”). I am also trying to not laugh as there is a young guy possibly doing an apprenticeship, who looks like he was the victim of some sort of hazing prank as he is missing about a 3 inch strip of his hair in what looks like a reverse mohawk. So I guess that is what I am doing here.
Okay…what I am really doing here is getting a permanent memento (MOMMY!!! THE SHIN HURTS!!!) of a couple of things that cannot be taken away. I knew long before I ever finished an Ironman that if I ever was able to accomplish that feat, I would celebrate it with a tatt. Just so you know how big of a deal this is to me, prior to an hour ago, my body had no ink on it. In fact, there was only one other idea I even half-way entertained and that was a tattoo of Homer Simpson on my belly with his mouth drawn around my belly button and him saying, “Food goes in here!”. I wasn’t so sure how that one was going to look when I was in my sixties, so I scratched it. I gave the Ironman emblem the same test, and it passed, so I am going for it (after all, Ironman actually trademarked the saying “Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles, and then brag about it for the rest of your life.”).
BUT, since I am getting inked anyway, I may as well tie in my real passion: Jesus Christ (so take that Mr. devil man across from me!). After all, my salvation is really something that can never be taken from me: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, no heights nor depths, nor anything else in all of creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-39). So instead of getting the traditional Ironman “M-Dot” on my calf, I am getting a creative version of that as a band but it is surrounded by a Cross on both sides of my calf. The other reason I am getting the Cross first is because something Pastor Rick Warren always says. He accurately points out that these days we don’t keep false idols in the form of cats and statues. However, he points out, anything we are putting before God in our lives, is a false idol. One of the things I am cautious of for myself is triathlon. Am I making time to train but find myself too busy to spend time in The Word? Well now I will have a permanent reminder that the Cross always comes before the tri.
Quick pain update: my tattoo artist’s next appointment is here and the more he rushes it, the more painful it gets. Heck…it is only going to be on me for life…so why not rush it right? Well, instead of just dipping my calf in a bucket of paint and announcing, “Done!,” I guess I get to come back next week and finish then. This is just fine by me because next time I’m not taking any chances, I am bringing my Mommy with me!
