Mid-Life Crisis Part One: My Secret

I was thinking about my friend the other day. She's fun, smart, nice, super super Mormon, and

She has two tattoos.

I remember the first time I saw one of these tattoos: I was at her house hanging out with her and her husband. She reached down from the couch to pick up her dog and there it was on her back. I won't describe it because a) you might know her and her tattoo design and she doesn't really know I'm writing this and b) I really can't recall the detail of the tat.

So after I recovered from the fit of envy that washed over me in that moment, I asked, "did I just see a tattoo?", her response, her husband's response, and the dog's response was total laughter. My friends then proceeded to tell me that she has adorned herself with not one but two.

After they told me the stories behind the tatts, I went on to tell her how badly I once wanted one but then months before going to New Zealand, where I would find time to get one, I attended a Relief Society satellite broadcast and got the sweetest, warmest tongue lashing ever. So I decided against it.

But I fibbed to my friends. Big time. While I did once wonder what it would be like to have a tattoo, never did I want one "badly". And yeah, I did think it might be fun to have a design from my tribe penned permanently into my skin but I never seriously explored the possibility. So at the broadcast when the standard against tattoos became . . . well . . . standardized, there were no feelings of loss or disappointment or even cultural disenfranchisement on my part.

But there was another part of the Relief Society rebuke that did sadden me.

Because you see, I have a secret. I've kept it to myself for over 10 years now (only Tevita knows). Well, it's less of a secret (noun), and more of a secret (adjective) dream; a want, a desire of some sort. But after the broadcast I figured my dream would never, could never, come to fruition. That is, until I entered my current mid-life crisis . . .