Lucky numbers

While Jo Jo and I were sitting shivering at the baseball game seven years ago, we came to a life-changing conclusion—we needed tattoos.

For many reasons, none seeming more important than my mom’s voice ever-ringing in my ears, “You know, it’s a sin to deface your body,” I never thought I would get a tattoo. In fact, not a month prior to this I emphatically told my then boyfriend that I would NEVER under any circumstances get a tattoo. Note to self: Never say never. Maybe it was the bitter cold that got to my brain that night, but never suddenly became tomorrow. Funny how after my then boyfriend became my ex-boyfriend, he went and got a legitimate mural inked all over his entire back, but that’s another story.

The next day, we walked into a tattoo parlor and after 30 minutes we both walked out with cute little tattoos on our right feet. In order for me to turn never into reality, I’d need to have something significant. So Jo Jo and I picked out a discreet little ladybug that signified our time in college, our time on the volleyball team, our time in the sorority, and our friendship. That was seven years ago today, the fourth of August, which made things more significant than we even imagined. Jo Jo’s jersey was number eight and I was number four, 8/4. And after all was said and done, the design we chose was a ladybug with four spots and together there are eight. I love my little ladybug, even when people mistake it for a pineapple. Or like the time this weekend when I was looking at The Ladybug Girl book with my goddaughter and I said, “what do you see down there on my foot?” and she replied unhesitatingly, “A STRAWBERRY!”

But I know what it is and for what it stands. And it goes to show that all these years and all the distance between us hasn’t gotten in the way of that everlasting friendship; Jo Jo e-mailed me this morning, as we were sharing the same thoughts of seven years ago, and to say, “Happy birthday, ladybug.”