I'm about the only person I know without a tattoo.

Well, this is not true. My parents don't have tattoos, and I don't think most of their friends do -- although I've not done a close inspection. That would be hard to do, and probably not very polite.

But among people my age and younger, I've become something of an oddity, yet I can honestly say I've never considered getting one. This isn't because I have anything against tattoos. I've seen some that were beautiful. But I've also seen some that read "Forever Young" or "No Regrets," and I wonder if this will always be the case.

And that's the problem.

I don't think I've ever been sure enough of anything to ink it on myself permanently. I remember having a conversation with a man who had a lot of tattoos, and I expressed this concern.

"How do you know you'll always think that way and want that on your arm?" I asked.

"Oh, I probably won't!" he answered cheerfully. "But that's not the point. The tattoo is a reminder of where I've been, not necessarily where I'm going."

This made sense to me but didn't solve the problem. I've gone through a lot of changes in my life, and I have a lot to say. I'm afraid I'd run out of available space in a hurry.

What if there was no writing space left and I still had years to go? I'd have to write very small, to make sure I had room for major life events. Since I have no idea how big each event will be -- or how many of them I will have -- this seems challenging.

And I honestly don't mind not having a tattoo. I figure they are like every other kind of fashion and will come and go. If I manage to live long enough, not having tattoos will probably be cool, allowing me to be a very cool nonagenarian. I have that to look forward to.

Instead, when I am in Mexico, I go to a fellow who makes bracelets. He weaves them by hand and ties them onto my wrist. He will write anything I want (provided it is not too long) in the colors I choose. I imagine I would have had a tattoo reminding me of these same things -- if I were not so cowardly.

I had one bracelet made that said, "Act as if."

I was trying to remember to behave as if I was already the person I wished to be, not always waiting around for "someday." When the bracelet did not seem to be doing the trick, I had another one made in a different color, and one more after that. Eventually I was wearing three bracelets. I have to say, I have been doing a much better job of living in the moment of late -- although I'm not sure I can give the bracelets all the credit.

But bracelets are not tattoos and, when they eventually got shabby, I cut them off. Now I am back to a wrist without slogans, and that might be for the best.

Because once a reminder is with me long enough, it stops reminding me, and I suspect it would be the same with a tattoo. If I can't rely on a bracelet for instructions, I don't think a tattoo would help, either.

Instead, I take a long walk every day, and at some point, I am reminded that I am a very lucky person. And I start acting as if I am. With or without tattoos.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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"I don't even know what game we're supposed to be playing!" my husband, Peter, told me.

He and our cat, Felix, have been playing their nightly game of chase and tag. Peter always loses. This might be because Felix makes the rules -- and is the referee.

"When is the game over?" I asked.

"Whenever Felix wins!"

Last night, I was already in bed while the game was wrapping up. Felix was nowhere to be seen. Peter was silently creeping around the bed and out the bedroom door. Suddenly, Felix tore out from under the chair in the bedroom, tagged Peter and zoomed on past.

"Score!" I hollered from the bed. "Felix one, Peter zero -- and Felix has won the game!"

Then Felix knocked all the pillows off the sofa to celebrate and came to bed with us.

"It's nice having a cat, isn't it?" I said to Peter.

"Hmm," Peter said.

"You sometimes used to win games when you played with dogs. That's because you were sneaky, and dogs are not as sneaky."

"Dogs are not sneaky at all!" Peter agreed. Peter used to hide from my old dog, Milo, and surprise him. He'd call him from the other room and hide on one side of the door or the other. More than half the time, Milo guessed incorrectly. Then Peter jumped out and surprised him. It was a very satisfying game for everyone.

"Cats are too sneaky," Peter said. "I don't stand a chance."

Felix was a street cat in Mexico before we adopted him and brought him home with us. He does not seem to be pining for life on the street. He has no desire to go outside and is quite content to watch birds through the window. He likes his food and water in their matching little blue-and-white bowls, and he likes to have a treat at precisely 8:30 every evening. He spends much of the day luxuriating on my office chair in the sunshine, although he takes breaks to be brushed twice a day -- always on the ottoman in the living room. Felix has things just the way he likes them. And every night, he plays the cat-and-mouse game with Peter -- and Peter is always the mouse.

"Where is my aspirin bottle?" Peter complained last night, after the game was over.

"Where was it?"

"On top of my dresser."

"I'm guessing Felix knocked it off."

"From the top of the highboy?"

Peter has still not absorbed the fact that there is no surface upon which it is safe to set any small object. Like living on a boat or in a spacecraft, we must attach everything to something or put it inside something else. Yesterday, I found Felix rolling the pepper shaker across the floor.

And, of course, our life is so much better this way.

For several years, we had no pet, and we would regularly assure ourselves that life was simpler and, with our trips back and forth to Mexico, we were doing the sensible thing -- for ourselves and for our imaginary pet.

But pets are not imaginary, once you have one.

While I cannot know with complete certainty what anyone (much less a cat) is thinking at any particular moment, I am sure Felix is a happy cat. He likes his new home in our condo. He likes his cat games and his many places to nap and his regular treats. I think he even likes us.

"You are a very good cat," I tell Felix every night before I fall asleep. Felix purrs and agrees.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I never learned my multiplication tables. Not really.

To this day, if you ask me, "What is six times nine?" out of the blue, with some urgency, I will panic. (Please don't do this.)

The troubles started when I was transferred from one math class to another in the third grade. I now understand that this was some sort of promotion from lower math to higher math, but it did not feel like that at the time.

Almost immediately, I realized everyone around me was privy to some secret code I didn't know. It was called the multiplication tables, and I couldn't imagine how they all knew it, but I clearly didn't, and this was a source of enormous shame.

Only many years after the fact, I figured out that I had been transferred right after everyone had been drilled on the multiplication tables. The lower math class had not gotten to it yet. The higher class was finished with it. I was terrified.

I had no idea what was going on and, instead of actually learning the multiplication tables, I spent the next three years trying to hide my ignorance. In fact, as time passed, I became increasingly convinced this was knowledge I would never acquire and the best I could hope for was to escape detection.

I once talked to my mother about this. "I tried to help you with your multiplication tables," she said. "Don't you remember?"

Perhaps I do -- vaguely. But I remained convinced that what I might be able to do at the kitchen table could never be replicated in real life -- especially if someone shouted, "What is six times nine?" -- which is exactly what my fourth-grade teacher did, in front of the class.

I had gone up to her to ask a question. Instead of answering it, she replied with this very loud non sequitur. Predictably, I had no answer.

"Don't come up here asking me questions until you've learned your multiplication tables!"

You can rest assured I never asked another question in the fourth grade.

Today, I can still remember that awful fear. "How can everyone in the room know something that makes no sense to me?"

In retrospect, it seems so unnecessary. Shouldn't someone have known that I hadn't been taught this? I moved from the class next door, not from Finland. I'm guessing no one ever thought learning multiplication tables could be so daunting and intimidating. Although I've gone on to do reasonably well in math, I still would not like a pop quiz.

This memory bubbled up to me the other day as I made preparations to do some performances of my writing after a long time away from performing. There is a lot I don't know. Some things have changed. Many things I never knew. There are acronyms I do not know and a lot of people talking and writing about stuff I've never heard of. I feel a familiar urge to hide under my desk.

I remember that feeling of being convinced there was this world of secrets I did not know, and I've been reminding myself there is a very good chance that there is no secret. And then reminding myself, if I don't know something, I can always just ask.

I'm trying to do what I should have done in third grade. I'm walking right up to people and saying, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Will you please explain this to me?"

And, so far, no one has looked at me and said, "What is six times nine?"

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION