effing.

Even tattoos aren’t permanent, you know.

People always warn you about getting that gnome on the inside of your wrist; that maybe you won’t want to be holding your grandchild someday and reminded of the night you took those awful shots and then thought it was a good idea to get inked. And that somehow you found the one tattoo artist who specializes in gnomes. Specializes. As if gnomes are special.

But what’s the big deal?

Things change.

Because I knew a guy who had a naked lady tattooed on his bicep. But then he met Jesus and, I’m not sure if it was Jesus who said something or the other people he knew who had also met Jesus, but he suddenly didn’t feel so comfortable with that poor lady, exposed for all the world to see like that.

So the next time I saw him, the tattoo was different. And although it wasn’t exactly Amish approved, a bikini was something, and all the unfortunate people in the world who were walking around with gnomes on their wrists suddenly felt some hope that they, too, could find some kind of redemption.

Although I’m not sure that putting a bikini on a gnome is the answer.

But see? Things change.

And you know what is just hilarious in all this mess?

I’ve never dealt so well with change.

Not when I was twelve and skinny with legs that were too long for the length of my jean shorts and went off to Chautaqua, New York for a summer dance intensive.

By. My. Self.

I remember the small wicker basket of plastic flowers that I picked out at my parents’ suggestion; something to make my dorm room in which I’d be staying a little more homey. But if you’re trying to make something homey, then it’s all too clear that you’re not at home.

You’re just not.

And that change hurt.

The kind of hurt that had me ducking into the bathroom for a good cry enough times to probably make my mom wonder if she should pick up some cranberry juice for my obvious bladder infection.

And then there was the change that happened every time one of my brothers moved out of the house. Like lemmings, they went until it was just me and my sister left on the second floor; they went until it was just me walking home from church late Sunday nights all alone, my brother Jonathan no longer making the trip across the yard with me.

And I’d sing a song from Les Miserables, On My Own, to the stars and I know, can you say dramatic?

But those changes?

Oh, they were sweet changes, by comparison. Changes that make me think of soft bunnies, dolphins swimming, and slippers that are fluffy and bright yellow and basically perfect.

I didn’t know about the changes that could make you realize that nothing on this earth, not even tattoos, is actually permanent. That you can bet your life on a few words, even nail them to your wall, painted on a piece of wood so all the world can see:

I will always go to sleep with your name in my prayers and you in my heart.

And then it’s the world’s best and worst joke.

And it’s old and timeless because you’ve heard the story before. You know about Arthur and Guinevere and then along comes Lancelot who sucked then and sucks now. Not to mention the way that Guinevere fell from grace in her own sucky manner too.* But it’s not like the kinds of betrayals that end relationships are original or anything. It’s not like Tiger Woods tried out something brand new.

But well, it’s new to me. It’s like life is a knock knock joke that I thought I knew. And I thought I’d laugh at the punch line again, just like all the other times, but I wasn’t prepared for knock knock, who’s there? nobody.

That was shocking.

And a big um, effing, change.

Can I say effing?

Or should I try to make it better with a bikini, just like that guy did after he met Jesus?

No, probably saying effing while wearing a bikini would not improve my situation.

But I guess I’m still reeling from the change. I guess going into our old place, seeing some good guys carry my piano from our old home to my parents’ home once again, was symbolic of this change.

And that’s why I was once again ducking away into a room for a good cry tonight. Only this time there was no little wicker basket with fake flowers, no attempt to make anything even feel more like home because why even try?

Things change.

At least they do here on earth; at least they have for me.

*I’m sorry, but I must point out how in just two sentences I used three different versions of the word suck. Somebody get me a gold star. An effing gold star.