I got a tattoo for the same reason most guys my (advanced) age get a tattoo – a Porsche is way too expensive, wearing clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch would be trying too hard, and Botox only lasts a few months.

So I got a tattoo. OK, I made the appointment when I was drunk, plunking down $20 as a promise to return the next day at 3 p.m. I would find out later, while waiting for the tattoo artist and watching several sober people drop by to make appointments, that the deposit seems only to apply to those in an inebriated state as a tattoo always seems like a good idea after the fifth beer. If not for various health laws designed to keep drunks from making bad decisions (like driving), you would probably see tattoo booths in almost every bar. If I etched skin, I would want to set up shop on weekend evenings at TGIFriday’s, the center of the universe for those 40 and older who can’t hold their liquor. I could retire after a few months and hundreds of ill-advised tattoos later. My motto – “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The pierced, tattooed Goth girl at the front desk (who knew tattoo parlors had front desks?) seemed surprised when my friend and I showed up the next day in an alcohol-free state. I was surprised too. Not that we were in a tattoo parlor. That we were in a tattoo parlor in an alcohol-free state.

She chose a tiny shamrock on her upper back. Must be an older woman thing. While there, another older woman was getting a shamrock on her ankle. Perhaps a latent attraction toward the Lucky Charms leprechaun. I went for a Kanji symbol, Kanji being Chinese characters used by the Japanese in certain writings (information I looked up later, thinking if something is going to be a part of me the rest of my life, I should know a little something about it, though I am still perfectly content not knowing exactly how my gastrointestinal tract works). I examined the chart of Kanji characters. You could assume there would be a symbol for diarrhea, but not that it would offered as a tattoo. My first, drunken choice was “father,” because if there came a time my son thought I was neglecting him, I could point to the tattoo and prove that I was still a father. But seeing the chart in a sober state, the character was a bit sparse, a box with a couple of accent marks. I chose instead “laugh, humor,” a symbol that applied to my personality and also one I considered cool, a fact tempered with the knowledge I considered my Toyota Camry cool.

The symbol happened to stored on the tattoo parlor’s computer (who knew tattoo parlors had computers?) and was printed on special paper that allowed the tattoo artist to transfer it to my skin. Yeah, the “artist” was no more than a guy really good at coloring within the lines. Since he had a series of very sharp needles at his disposal, I did not question his talent.

I picked a spot high on my right arm, easily covered by short-sleeve shirts. The only thing cooler than having a tattoo is having a tattoo no one can see, allowing you to be smug about your coolness. Hmm, seeing that in print, it seems rather silly. Too late now.

My friend shouted from the counter, her microscopic shamrock already in place.

“Twenty bucks if you make him scream like a little girl.”

The tattoo-coloring guy said, “No problem.”

What most people say when seeing your tattoo, after, “Why?” is “Did it hurt?” The best answer is, “Just enough to let me know what parts of me I don’t want tattooed.”

There is a stinging sensation at first, not surprising since a bobbing needle is piercing skin about 10 times a second. It s followed by a burning sensation is if a lighter is about an inch from your flesh. And then it begins to tingle, which is somewhat pleasurable (though not pleasurable enough to convince me to tattoo certain parts of my body). It’s as if your skin says, “Oh, is this all? No problem.” Every now and then there is a brief spike of pain, but nothing to make you scream like a little girl. Unless you are a little girl. And if you are, you are prohibited from getting tattooed, which I learned after signing a form swearing I was 18 or older (as if we had a problem there), that I knew tattoos could only be removed surgically (as I learned during the Angelina Jolie-Billy Bob Thornton tabloid adventures), and that I wouldn’t sue if my skin was allergic to the ink and my flesh started to slough off. Yeah, sure, whatever, just give me my cool Kanji.

About 20 minutes later it was done. The tattoo color-iner taped some Saran Wrap to it and told me to keep this “bandage” on for the next three hours. The Goth girl handed me care instructions, stuff about antiseptic cream and lotion and soap. Whatever, OK, you bet. Can I be hip now?

One last hurdle. When I mentioned a few months ago to Bryson, my 11-year-old son, that I was thinking about a tattoo, he gave me a look reserved for smokers (who receive the disdainful, reproachful look of a know-it-all kid every time he passes one, and I don’t have a problem with that).

“You can’t get a tattoo,” he said. “For one, you’re too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. You’re, like, 20 years too late. And only bad guys get tattoos. Whenever you see a guy with a tattoo in the movies, you know he’s the bad guy.”

Yeah, well, maybe bad guys just want to be cool, no matter how old they are.

“Bryson, can I tell you something without you freaking out?”

“I guess. What’s going on.”

“I did something.” When your father says, “I did something,” you probably expect to hear, “And we have to move so get packing.”

He just stared at me. I rolled up my sleeve.

“Is that real? That’s not real. Is it real? No way it’s real.”

“It’s real.”

“No it isn’t. Nice try.”

“It’s real. Trust me on this. I have photos.” I did have photos. Hey, you don’t break your tattoo cherry without getting photos, especially when you’re old.

He looked at it very closely.

“Touch it.” He rubbed it with his forefinger.

“It’s real! What did you do! I can’t believe you did that to yourself.”

The boy was giving me lessons on how to act when he turns 18. Wish I had photos of this.

“Hey, I’m old enough to do this,” I said, defending myself to a kid. “It took a lot of thought.” And a lot of beer. I didn’t mention that last one.

“You are way too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. Young people get tattoos.”

“Don’t you even want to know what it means?”

“I already know what it means. It means you’re crazy!”

Apparently we were going to have to agree to disagree. Later he still didn’t understand the tattoo, but he did accept it. I also acceded him the right to get his own tattoo. When he’s 40.

“No way, I’m getting one way before that so I’m not a crazy old person.”

Pandora, meet box. Box, meet Pandora.

Sometimes it’s tough to be cool.