Maybe a year ago, I felt so much love for my husband that I thought the sentence, “I must get a tattoo to commemorate my love for him.” Obviously, the flacks at the tattoo lobby have been doing their work. I accept that at least half of my thoughts have been planted by people with a commercial interest in me. I am grateful for this, because otherwise I would spend half of my time not thinking anything at all.

Oh, I don’t mean it. Do I? Lately I have instituted a new program of not buying things, so that we can pay for the kitchen, which is going to be, of course, more expensive than we thought. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you about the progress of our renovation, a subject only slightly less deadly than the topic Why I’m Late to This Thing I’m Late to. [And slightly more deadly than The Dream I Had Last Night That I Don't Understand (But You Will, Because It's Transparent).] I’m not doing anything drastic, of course. The program is just that, when I think, Should I buy this thing? I then think, No, I’m not buying anything. Then sometimes I don’t buy the thing.

I’m not crazy, like some people.

Anyway, I passed some time thinking about tattoos. I wanted a classy tattoo. I wanted an upper-middle-class tattoo, a tattoo that would signify taste and knowledge at the same time it communicated undying love for another upper-middle-class person. Also, I wanted a tattoo that would look nice as my body deteriorates.