Seth Mnookin would write a Scrutiny on tattoo parlors. For extra realism, for that elusive I-was-there touch, he would actually get a tattoo--this would be his fourth. I, in turn, would edit him. And get a tattoo, too. This would be my first.

At first, I argued with Seth, a self-described "high-maintenance employee."

"No no no no no," I told him. "You don't understand. My parents have spent the last year lecturing my eighteen-year-old brother on the dangers of tattoo parlor needles, and so if I come home for Thanksgiving with "Semper Fi" stamped on my arm--"

"That's why we're going to this place in Providence that uses new hospital needles for every customer. Look, do you want this Scrutiny or not? Can you go Tuesday? Is Tuesday good for you? Wednesday? Okay, Wednesday." He hung up.

Then, I actually started to consider getting a tattoo, kind of. I thought of all the possible places on my body where I wouldn't mind having a tattoo. I came up with one: my hip. Low enough that it really wouldn't be seen by too many people. ("What happens if you're pregnant someday? Won't it stretch out and look dumb?" one of my roommates asked. No, it would look cool, Seth told me when I repeated her question.)

And another question: what kind of tattoo would I get? A rose? a butterfly? An "H" for "Harvard?" A "P" for "poor judgment?"

I think there was just one person, maybe two, who thought I should "go for it" and get myself inked. Everyone else strongly advised me not to. Get one of those temporary ones if you want, they said, but don't, don't, don't get a real one. You'll be sorry.

In the end, it was the cost that convinced me to skip it. Seth said that for around $40 I could get a small tattoo. I didn't really have $40 to blow on something like this. I thought about using the Fifteen Minutes budget--$40--but then decided that wasn't fair because then there wouldn't be any money left for June to get a tattoo. (She had never expressed a desire to get one, but you can never assume.)

So I missed my chance. I didn't get my tattoo, but then, neither did Seth. Of course, he has a story to tell, and I don't.

Nor do I have dried blood on my ankle, marking each spot where the tattoo artist screwed up before he finally quit in shame. Seth does, and it's not pretty.