I am such an addict. I have an addictive personality, if you will.
First example: I have 6 tattoos. 4 of which I LOVE. 2 I could totally do without. But they’re there and I can always get it removed some day or get it covered with a new one. I’ll probably do the latter.
See, it started with one. It’s a part of a Buddhist chant, praying for peace in the world. I got it shortly after I got home from the Army when I turned 18. Then I got Chinese lettering on my lower back (I know, I know…tramp stamp) that says “Patience, *Cat.” The third one I got on my hip when I was about to break up with my then boyfriend. I guess I needed a juju. At least that’s what I told myself. But at least I drew it by hand. (It’s a dragonfly and my only color one.) The fourth/fifth one says Erindre Alltid which is NOT the names of my kids, husband, boyfriend or dog. It translates to Remember Always in Norwegian. Gotta go with the heritage. Lastly, I have the symbol of Zen on my left inner ankle, meaning: Live life by the moment…which I most certainly do!
Point in case: addicted.
Second example: Piercings. I had a bunch. Here we go (in no particular order): My tongue (twice), ears, industrial (google industrial piercing…do it!), right nipple (why the right? I don’t know, I was drunk), nose (twice), belly button (top and bottom)… you get the point.
Third example: 24. Can’t miss an episode. Matt and I talk about it when we should be falling asleep. I’m counting down minutes until it comes on (which by the way is 3. 3 minutes!) Matt and I toss a coin as to who will put Claire down. Only on Mondays and only because sometimes her books go long or she’s being a poop (such as tonight).
Fourth example: 5k’s.
I’ve already run 3 and it’s only MAY! It’s fun, but I hate them all at the same time. Only while I’m running them. I’m excited before, hate myself during, and am so super proud of myself at the end. I look up on active.com to see what’s coming up near me so I can sign up for the next one.
*Cat was a nickname that was given to me by a friend in high school. When I moved to Pittsburgh and was waitressing at the awesome TGI Fridays, it was so much easier to go by that. No one butchered Cat. I wasn’t called Cathy, Casey or CassandrA. It was AWESOME. Plus, when I was single, one of the bartenders used to purr and meow at me. Actually…he always did that, regardless of relationship status…