I’ve decided to get my tattoo removed. In case you’re wondering, this is not the time when it’s okay to say, “Why not just leave it? It’s a valuable life lesson!” Or “You are? Why? I love your tattoo! Don’t remove it!” Because, dudes, you’re totally not Team Whitney when you say that. And let’s be honest: you don’t love it.

I’ve decided to chronicle this body-changing decision on my blog despite my hesitation to show photos. Why don’t I want to show photos? You ask. Well, duh, if I WANTED everyone to see it, why the f— would I suffer through having it removed? Yeah, think about it.

I wasn’t sure I wanted photos on this blog because I plan on having this blog for many many years, and I don’t want an ugly tattoo tarnishing the pages of this blog the way it’s tarnished photos and outfits and moods and MY ENTIRE LIFE* for the last seven years.

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*over dramatic

Also, despite my being a frequent over-sharer, I don’t want to put photos up here so that people can leave comments like, “Dude, NO WONDER you’re getting it removed! That shit is uuuuggggllly!” (LOOKING AT YOU, ANONYMOUS!) And also, don’t you think I know? Don’t you think if I didn’t hate it with every ounce of anger in my soul that I would just shrug my shoulders and wear socks more often? Well, NEWSFLASH!! I live in Florida, where it’s not always cool to wear socks with snowflakes on them I got for Christmas two years ago.

So to sum it up, I don’t want people telling me “don’t get it removed” or “yeah, it’s ugly, totally get it removed.*

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*Over sensitive

As I was saying earlier in this post, I’m definitely chronicling all of it, if not in photos, I’m going to be sure to write down all of the details from my experience. Every painful, blistering detail. And when you have a tube-top wearing teenager who totally wants a tattoo, you can tell her that she can get it after she’s read the story that will be the next YEAR of my life. Maybe I’ll even turn it into a short book. I even came up with a title: “This is even worse than prison torture. But not quite as bad as watching reruns of Fraiser. Just kidding, it’s even worse than Fraiser. True story.” And also, that has Lifetime Movie Network written all over it.

“Tell me honestly, is this going to be excruciating?” I asked my doctor during my consultation.

“Um, yes. I will tell you honestly. For you, yes. It’s a spot where there’s no fat and you’ll feel it down into your bones. It will really hurt. It will be quite excruciatingly painful.”

And if THAT didn’t get me pumped up…

“Ok, I’m going to do one pulse, and then I’m going to continue with the treatment without stopping, because it will just seem like torture if we stretch it out.”

I thought it was a shame, because stretched out is exactly how I like my torture. Oh well. “Let’s do this,” I told her.

The next part was where tattoo removal became really confusing to me. I thought that the lasers would be like those light pointers that lame executives use during presentations while everyone in the room thinks how much better the meeting would be if there were a cat chasing the laser pointer around. No, it wasn’t like that at all. In fact, the only way I can think to describe it would be to say it was like being struck with lightning over and over and over. And the bottom of the lightning is shaped like a knife and when it strikes you, it also stabs you and then insults your mom. And also, it lights you on fire but you can’t feel the burning because you’re too preoccupied with feeling the stabbing. But you know you’re on fire because when you manage to get in a breath every 15 seconds, you’re all, “Um, is it me or does it smell like burning flesh in here?”

And they’re all, “It does. And it IS you.”

All the while I’m going “OK! ENOUGH! I NEED YOU TO STOP STOP STOP!” And she just kept zapping away like, “It’ll only be more like torture if I stop and keep going!” And I’m all, “Oh, my mistake. I thought it was torture RIGHT NOW. Didn’t realize there was a better way to be zap-stabbed to the point of near death. But yeah, do it your way. Whatever.”

The whole treatment took less than one minute. I know, you think I’m a total wimp, right? I wish there was a way I could give you a taste of the pain so you could be all, “Dude, I can’t believe you endured that for 48 seconds. You’re pretty much a hero. Here, I’ve carved this statuette in your liking to honor your bravery.”

And then she handed me an icepack to hold onto my foot that I was now considering amputating and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Great! I’m looking forward to doing that 12 more times.” I said. She didn’t seem amused by what can only be described as my attitude problem and instead asked me for my credit card. (see: died and went to hell)

Some people would think that there wouldn’t be any residual pain, that the aftermath of laser treatments isn’t much different than a bad haircut or something – not ideal, but not physically painful. Well, friends, some people would be dead wrong. I had to keep ice on it for “a few days.” This is easy, right? 20 on, 20 off. No – false. This meant to keep ice on it, constantly, for “A FEW DAYS.” This means sleeping with a bag of ice Saran wrapped to your foot. This means walking into a meeting with ice Saran wrapped to your foot. This means getting the mail, making out with your husband, going to the grocery store with a bag of ice Saran wrapped to your foot. Not sexy.

I followed this religiously. And by “religiously,” I don’t mean that I insisted on burning other people’s valuable belongings whilst trying to convince other people to Saran wrap bags of ice to their feet. I mean that I did it. I kept ice on my foot THE WHOLE TIME. But after a couple days, I decided it’d probably be okay if I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to change the ice, so instead I woke up in the morning with a lukewarm bag of gel stuck to my foot. Speaking of not sexy…

There it was – a little “told you so” hanging out right under that non-ice pack: my first blister. I iced it immediately, yet it continued to grow. And grow, and grow. And I resisted the urge to drain it because those were the doctor’s orders. And the last time I chose not to follow them, I ended up with this blister. It became so engorged that it drained on it’s own. During dinner. At a restaurant. While I was chatting to my girlfriends about how getting my tattoo removed is, like, the best decision ever!

The Festering Blister Stage lasted eight days, and then I moved into the Not-So-Festering Blister Stage, which was a flattened, loose-skinned blister that seemed TO BE HEALING. I felt so hopeful I said, out loud, to myself, while my coworkers tried hard to not acknowledge that I was talking to myself, “Wow! This looks so much better than yesterday. It’s totally healing right now.”

And then when the day was over, I headed over to pick Kya up from daycare wearing a freshly applied layer of French foot cream. You know it’s good because it’s from France. At least that’s what Dr. Laserface said when she sold it to me for 25 bucks. (Side note, Kya doesn’t always go to day care. There were maintenance inspections in our apartment. So yeah, we’re not some sort of bring-your-dog-to-daycare-for-play-dates-every-day-with-her-friends type of dog people. Yet.)

When I stepped up to the front entrance I could see through the window that the owner was having a hard time wrangling her into her leash. There she is, my lovely dog who’s polite to no one but me. “Hi Kya!” I greeted her as she jumped around and acted like a totally rambunctious asshole. Thanks for embarrassing me, by the way, dog. “Wow, look at those jumps,” I said as a buffer, when what I really meant was “Yeah, as if we let you put your paws up on the counter at home. Yeah, let’s act like that right now, dog.”

I was holding her leash while I handed over my credit card and then signed the receipt.

And THEN… enter: Pain.

All of her jumping and twirling was set to the tune of something like, “OH MY GOD! I’M TOTALLY AT DAYCARE RIGHT NOW AND YOU’RE HERE, MOM. I JUST CAN’T STOP JUMPING BECAUSE, SERIOUSLY,  STIMULUS OVERLOAD. FOR REAL. I CAN’T EVEN COMPREHEND WHAT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE LOOK WHERE WE ARE. AND WE’RE BOTH HERE. AND YOU JUST GOT HERE. HELLO. AND FUCK YEAH.”

Amidst her acrobatics she managed to – have you guessed yet? – trample onto my foot. And it wasn’t just a case of dog-stepping-on-foot. It was more like she used my blistered skin as a starter’s box to push off into an airborne triple axle. And that’s the story of how I shot my dog.

Ok, I’ve decided to share photos. I know the quality of these is crap because I don’t think this eyesore is worth photographing with a nice camera. And also, kindly refrain from shouting “Oh! Oh! There’s a shoe on your foot!” Because I’ll have to reply, “All the better to kick your mom with.” And I don’t want to have to dish out that kind of abuse, you guys.

Before the first treatment (I know, it’s horribly ugly and I should totally remove it and also you love it and I shouldn’t remove it because I’d be taking away precious memories and life lessons):

One day after the first treatment:

Engorged Blister Stage:

Festering Blister Stage:

Flappy Skin Stage (R.I.P. Kya):

So, you know, not much yet but certainly enough to scare scare your kids out of getting a tattoo because, turns out, there’s something more painful than getting a tattoo.

Three cheers for expensive mistakes!

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