"Do I need to wear a long sleeve shirt to your parents house?" He asked.
"No, it's going to be 90 degrees... it will be fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," I answered, convinced that it really wasn't fine. That Dad would surely be put off by the half-sleeve tattoos my boyfriend has yet to show off while visiting.
We arrived after an hour drive in a flurry of birthday presents for my little sister, distracting Dad's first glances with tissue paper, pink gift bags, and overly theatrical hugs and kisses hello.
And then I waited.
I waited for the questions and the comments about the tattoos. But all seemed well and Dad said nothing.
At least until he got my boyfriend alone.
I'm not sure of their exchange, but my little sister filled me in, "Now Daddy is asking about his tattoos!" She exclaimed.
We had just gotten back from a local carnival, where all the young men ogled those very inked arms, asking how much they cost, where they were done, and exclaiming that they were "totally sick."
Yeah, I thought. They're great, but the only thing sick at that moment was my stomach.
But just as I was about to rush to his defense, and declare that tattoos (of skulls) aren't evidence of a bad boy, but of a former musician... Dad had only one question.
"You don't have any tattoos, do you?" He asked me, a look of actual fear in his face.
"No way Dad, never!" came my hurried reply.
"Good," he said. "I'd hate to see you get any. Although his are pretty sick..."