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Yesterday we spent the day at an indoor waterpark.

Waterparks are good for many things, but people watching has to be high on the list.

I tried to keep a tally of how many people had tattoos, but decided it was easier to count those who did not.  Most of them were over 50.

I realized I’m a bad mother because I do not have my children’s names tattooed anywhere on my body.

I realized I’m not hip because I don’t have any reptilian/insect/mythological creatures tattooed anywhere on my body.

I realized that I am glad to have carefully chosen the location of the one tattoo I have so that, when my body begins to stretch and then sag, as all appear to do without surgical intervention, the said tattoo will not be as easy to mock.

My favorite tat yesterday was a scorpion whose tail curled around the nipple of a man whom, I’m guessing, was moderately buff in his teens/early twenties but who, now, in his mid- to late-thirties, resembles more a teapot than a tall glass of anything.

On the other hand, tattoos are relics of our youthful optimism that we are always going to look beautiful with little effort, that our skin will always glow and that we will always want to draw attention to our bodies.

And it’s hard to complain about anyone having optimism, even if it’s a bit misplaced.

Like that scorpion tattoo.

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