A few years back, I had a surreal exchange with my mom. She called me about a week after her 50th birthday, and from her breathless greeting, it was clear something was up. "Guess what your uncle and I did for my birthday?" she asked, and before I could get a word in edgewise, she blurted out, "We got tattoos!" It seemed that after a bout of spontaneous bonding with her younger brother, my mom was now sporting a medium-sized rose on her right shoulder. It's important to interject here that my mom, while an adventurous woman, is not exactly risque when it comes to her appearance. She's a dean at a midwestern college and wears wool suits to work, goes light on the makeup, and has had the same haircut for about as long as I can remember. To say I was shocked at the idea of my mom baring some ink is an understatement.
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