I recently visited with a friend who I hadn’t seen in more than a year. After catching her up on my life as a single mom, complete with dancing and dating horror stories, she said, “Wow, you’re so different now.”

I laughed and said, “You mean because I stay up past 8?”

“That’s the least of it! You stay out until 2, drink whiskey and date a different guy each week.” (Disclaimer: Although the first two are true, the third statement is not.)

“The way you say it, I almost feel like a stereotype. ‘Divorced woman gone wild.’”

“That’s what you are!” she laughed. “Next thing I know, you’ll get a tattoo.”

“Uhhh,” I said as I lifted my shirt and showed her the 6-inch by six-inch tattoo covering my shoulder.

“Damn,” we said in unison.

In defense of what appears to be my current reckless lifestyle, getting a tattoo is something I’ve wanted to do for 15 years.

And no, the whiskey had no bearing on helping me actually do it. But getting divorced may have.

I spent a lot of my 20s and early 30s thinking about things but not always following through with them.

Getting divorced changed the tide for me to stop over-thinking and over-analyzing my desires and to instead check in with my gut. If it says yes, I go for it.

So far, the worst thing that has happened is I laughed at myself the next day. And, the best thing that has happened is I’m doing and getting what I want rather than merely pining for it.

My previous barriers to a tattoo were 1) I didn’t know what permanent design I wanted on my body 2) Fear of the pain 3) Both female tattoo artists I had envisioned working with were unavailable.

This winter, I said, “Who cares?” to all three barriers and called a Ballard tattoo shop.

Again, the women were booked for months, so I let go of my “only see women professionals when it comes to my body” rule and scheduled an appointment with “Bill” for the following Saturday.

Bill is exactly what you would expect, a young guy covered in tattoos wearing rocker jeans and smoking cigarettes.

When I asked about numbing cream, he laughed and said, “Yeah, I call that Vaseline.”

Yet his eyes were warm, and I knew he was the person I wanted to permanently scar my body.

I gave him a vague idea of what I wanted, using terms such as “fish, feminine, yin yang, do what you want.”

The following week, we met to look over his design. “You don’t like it,” he immediately intuited.

When I cautiously said, “They look too much like Koi,” he balled the drawing up and tossed it in the trashcan without a hint of being insulted. “I’ll start over and we’ll meet next week,” he said.

Every once in a while I’d think, “I’m trusting this guy to read my mind. Maybe I need to be clearer on what I want.” But, I’d quickly go back to, “Who cares?” and left my fate up to Bill.

And sure enough, the next design he showed me was perfect. “I love it!” I squealed (which, by the way, is a very uncool thing to do in a tattoo parlor) and took off my shirt.

No, I wasn’t stripping to make up for squealing. I had a camisole on and was merely showing my readiness.

Friends offered to come and hold my hand through the procedure as well as to try to illegally confiscate pain medication for me, but I declined all of their offers.

I brought my iPod as an escape and planned on using several breathing and pain coping mechanisms, but I never needed them.

Bill and I immediately fell into our own world, him alternately massaging my shoulder and then sticking a needle in it and me snoozing. Yes, I actually fell asleep on the table.

When he said it was almost over, I moaned, “Not yet.”

“I’m afraid so. You were great by the way. Some women fidget, but I could tell you were into it.”

“Thanks. It was so much better than I thought. You have a really nice touch.”

Is it just me, or does this conversation has a post-coital ring to it? I blushed, thanked him profusely, asked him if I could give him a hug and avoided all thoughts of prostitution when I handed him a $40 tip.

After relaying this story to the friend I was catching up with, she said, “OK, we can cross the tattoo off the list. The next thing you’ll do is dye your hair and join a punk rock band.”

“No way!” I laughed. And then thought, “Never say never.”

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is the founder of Reality Mom (www.realitymomzine.blogspot.com), author of "Creating a Life" (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the sexy mommy-lit book "Swings" (out for submission). She lives in Ballard with her two children.