MIA

Unlike Mitch was for 50 days, I have not been missing in action and have a full cadre of witnesses to attest I’m ambulatory and cognizant. Admittedly, I am missing a few parts, like a foot of intestine, an inch of my height, and the true color of my hair. But earlier this week, I found out I was missing something else: collagen!

Duh. I need only to look in the mirror at my wrinkles and wonder who that old gal is staring back. In this case, though, it had a new twist, when I went for my appointment–at the tattoo parlor. “You must be Sue; you have an appointment at noon. Did you bring a picture of what you want done?”

I handed him a copy. “I want it done here,” I said, as I pointed to my upper arm.

He took my arm and gently rubbed it. “Hmm. You know at your age you lack collagen, so the tattoo ink might seep. You see how your other tattoo is blurry? That’s because the dermis becomes thin and loses its structure. The ink particles tend to move around or migrate.”

WTH? Migrating ink in my dermis?

“So I want you to understand your tattoo may not be as vivid and vibrant because of your age.”

Oh, ye gods, a twenty+ year-old, heavily-inked dude with a pierced nose is talking to me like he is a physician and like I am a child. “I understand; let’s do it.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the parlor, sporting my 8th tat. Quite frankly, I don’t care if my new addition blurs or goes south for the winter with the Monarch butterflies. I had to get this done and am very glad I opted out of my 60th-year high school reunion yesterday. I would have been embarrassed for my classmates to see that I’d lost my collagen!

The Last Inning Fan

That’s what I am. Of course, there was a time when I was not. When I was in high school, I faithfully sat through every football and basketball game to root for my friends on the field or court. When my girls played tennis, I was there. When my youngest was a cheerleader I sat on the front row bleacher. As a football season ticket holder and alumna of Arizona State, I sat in the crumbling Pasadena Stadium and watch Ohio State beat us in the last seconds of the Rose Bowl. Admittedly, I closed my eyes when Luis Gonzales came to bat in the ninth inning of the World Series. But, with rain drizzling down my face, I saw him cross home plate, and I heard the announcer scream, “OMG! The Diamondbacks win!”

Time passed. My interest waned. Why? Perhaps because I didn’t know any of the players or I just didn’t care. In fact, some folk would ask me, Aren’t you excited about… and cite some random team name? No, I’m not. It doesn’t matter. At this stage in my life, I’ve better things to do than sit on the sofa for three and a half hours and watch football, or basketball, or baseball, or put-me-to-sleep golf.

My sports’ lifestyle today is best described as a two-minute-warning. Then and only then am I able to turn my attention to the TV, unless it’s Miller Time!