STRANGER THAN FICTION: SIT DOWN, MOM: I'M A TATTOOED WOMAN AND MY FOOT HURTS

My right foot hurts.

It's a manageable throbbing, top and center, which serves as a constant reminder that I'm too old to be committing youthful indiscretions.

Sit down, Mom.

I'm a tattooed woman.

We're not talking an only-$2-to-see-the-tattooed-lady kind of tattoo, but it's visible. It's the outline of a phoenix head engulfed in red, orange and yellow flames, about 1.5-by-1.5 inches. It took me a year to find the perfect design, and it's beautiful.

My obsession with permanently marking my body began two or three years ago, when girls started getting the cute, colorful butterflies and roses on their shoulders. Before that, my only experience with tattoos were the ones on old, retired Navy men -- those big clumps of green that may have been naked women at one time but no one can really tell today.

The tattoos of the new generation are just doggone cute. My dear friend celebrated her 30th birthday last year by getting a Zorro-type "Z" tattooed on her upper cheek -- and I'm not talking FACIAL cheek.

Imagine my jealousy at her birthday party when, after she'd imbibed several adult beverages, she shared her new mark with the rest of the group.

Other girlfriends have cartoon characters, tree frogs, even a lotus flower. Most of my guy friends have Chinese symbols on their backs or barbed wire around their ankles.

I'm not one to follow trends, but all the tattooing started getting to me. I could see the appeal having something permanent on your body that speaks volumes about who you are.

That is, except the Chinese symbols. Lord knows WHAT those are saying.

It took about a year to come up with the phoenix idea and find the perfect design. I was so proud of myself. Who else would think of that? Yep, I've come through the fire and emerged a new woman, I thought, and it's time to let people know that.

I foolishly shared my vision with others.

"A phoenix?" one now ex-friend said. "How pass! Everybody is getting those." Yeah, but does everyone deserve one? I think not.

I went to a highly recommended tattoo parlor in Hollywood, Fla., on Saturday to finally get the tattoo monkey off my back, so to speak.

For you unmarked individuals, tattoo parlors are not for the faint of heart. Even walking in and looking at all the tacky nudes on the walls is painful. There are usually a couple of heavily tattooed deadbeats sitting around for no apparent reason.

And tattoo artists, while many of them are highly creative people, aren't exactly members of Toastmasters International.

My artist, Nate, seemed non-committal about even tattooing me. He probably doesn't get many nerdy 30-year-old women in there. Luckily, my cooler-than-cool friend Tamika took over. She didn't have a moment's hesitation before requesting a three-inch-high treble clef on her upper right arm, where everyone could see it.

That wouldn't be a problem, Nate said. But tattoos on the foot are some of the most painful kind, he warned. I told him I didn't care. The tops of feet don't sag like some other body parts I won't mention.

Nate handed over forms to sign attesting that we were not drunk or under the influence of drugs.

I wasn't, but I should have been.

Getting a tattoo feels exactly like what it is being jabbed quickly thousands of times by a tiny needle. I almost passed out in the first minute. Thank heavens two women, one who'd had a breast reduction and the other a breast enlargement, stood nearby discussing their operations. It was fascinating and kept my mind off the pain. That's a pretty routine conversation for a tattoo parlor.

Tamika, of course, didn't break a sweat. Her arm probably doesn't even hurt now.

Meanwhile, I'm limping around for a second day. Putting on shoes this morning to judge a high school oratorical contest was absolute agony, but I couldn't imagine going in sandals. What kind of example would that set for the kids? They don't know that I'm a mature 30-year-old who only got tattooed after three years of agonizing over the issue.

I've also been trying to keep my right foot away from my mother-in-law, visiting us through Thursday. She'd probably be fine with it, but why risk our friendly relationship? It's just better that I walk two paces behind her at all times and then press the top of my right foot to the back of my left leg when she turns around.

I'm sure she hasn't noticed.

They say people get hooked on tattoos, but I doubt it. I'm probably one of those one-tattoo-that-you-hide-under-a-sock people.

But I'll let you know.

Heidi Nieland is a former writer for the Southeast Missourian now living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Contact her at newsduo@herald.infi.net.