Older and...Dumber?

Age and growing older have always been common themes in my writing.  Today I choose to address the commonly recognized saying,

 "With age comes wisdom."  Considering the fact that with each passing year, I inevitably have a birthday, then it should also hold true that within me lies a wealth of wisdom.  Wisdom that one would assume would lead me to make long thought out, informed decisions.  Growing older is basically synonomous with growing up, right?  So why, when the time comes to make an important, life-altering or life-long decision, do I ignore that warning, maybe-I shouldn't-be-doing-this- feeling in my gut?

Example #1.
In the Spring Semester of 2010, I take Milly, my chocolate lab, to E&B Boarding on Tuesdays and Thursdays for Doggie Daycare.  (Sounds silly, I know, but I didn't feel that Milly would do well if left home alone for 10 hours).  One day, while dropping Milly off, we see a new foster dog in the lobby.  I am smitten nearly immediately.  When I reach down to pet him, I revert to the vocabulary of a second grader.  "Aww."  "Soft."  "Pupppyyy!"  Herschel is a five-month-old Chesapeake Bay Retreiver/Chow mix with a curled up tail, and truly, the softest (most shedding-est) fur ever.

After meeting Herschel, I can't stop thinking about him and what it would be like to have a second dog.  Finally, another dog for Milly to play with (if she likes him), another dog to sit on the couch with me, another pet to drop off at my parents' for month-long stretches.

I consider the pros, breeze through the cons (harder to walk two dogs at once, twice the food, twice the Frontline, twice the vet bills, twice the poop.)  But really, how much could two dogs eat, anyway?  I decide hurriedly, in love with "soft puppy," that a second dog is a brilliant idea.  I post his petfinder picture on my facebook profile, use my status updates to ask for name suggestions, most of which I  ignore, in favor of names that no one likes.

After I tell the owners at E&B that I want to adopt Herschel, my landlords put the kibosh on my plans by telling me that I am not allowed a second dog.  I sadly relay the news to the owners of E&B, update the facebook world, and pout.  I tell myself that I will be happy as long as Herschel is adopted by nice people who will give him a good home.  This is a lie.

After a week of pouting, the foster parents of Herschel tell me that they've discussed it, and they are willing to keep Herschel at the kennel until I return to WI for the summer.  I am elated.  Ecstatic.  3 or 4 times a week, I drive to E&B, pick up Herschel and take my two dogs for a walk.  Herschel is shy, timid, and still soft.  He's scared of cars and has never been on a leash or a walk before.  No matter.

The day comes when the owners of E&B want me to fill out the paperwork and write the check for Herschel's adoption fee.  I am a little taken aback, but I think, this is what I want, right?  As I sign on the Xs and write out a check for $150.00 (all the while wondering if I even have $150 in my checking account) my stomach drops a little, and I wonder if this is a good idea.  But I push the thought aside, my brain turned to mush by his cute mug.

Really, how could you say no to this?

But then, came the downsides of "Herschel," renamed Buckley.  When I moved into my new house in Greenville, he caused the following damage:
1. Ate and destroyed numerous pairs of flip-flops and even a pair of toddler shoes
2. Rope toys
3. Two blankets used in their crates
4. Ripped holes in my comforter
Not included is his bad habit of biting things and body parts when he doesn't get attention, I don't get up right away, if I don't feed him within thirty seconds after waking.

Upon compiling this list, it's dawned on me that dogs tend to live quite a long time.  Anywhere between 10 and 15 years.  By then, when I'm likely to be 40, and a maybe a little wiser, Buckley will have been one of my best dumb decisions.

Milly and the ever-elusive Buck

Example #2
What?  You thought I made only one possibly regrettable choice a year?  Ha.  (This story is quite a lot shorter than my drawn-out-dog-adopting-experience.)

Just about a month ago, I acquired my seventh tattoo.  November 2009 marked my last tattoo, and I was itching for a new one.  I finally found the picture of a peacock that I wanted to be turned into a tattoo.  It was drawn by the lovely and very talented Taylor Hemple, a fellow Flannery O'Connor admirer.  Here is her drawing:

After Taylor gave me her permission, I printed and headed to Blood, Sweat, and Tears tattoo shop in Charlotte, NC.  There I talked to an artist who agreed to draw it up and tattoo me the next day.  I left the shop excited.  A few hours later, after explaining to co-workers at TIP, that I was getting a peacock on my calf and wrapping around my ankle, I began to get a little nervous.  I remembered the ridiculous pain of my foot tattoo.  The calf and ankle were not far from the foot.  It was going to hurt.

When I showed up for my appointment at noon, the artist put the stencil on my calf.  I looked at it.  It was HUGE.  But delicate, detailed, and amazing.  That stomach feeling came back again.  Whoa.  Should I really do this?

A few minutes later I was sitting in the chair, the stencil now on my leg.  The artist poured his ink colors in the tiny little cups.  Johnny Cash was pounding through the speakers: "I got 25 Minutes to Go."  In reality, I had three and a half hours to go and we hadn't even started yet.  As the buzz of the needle started, my stomach dipped and rose--sick and thrilled at once.  I could still change my mind.  But then, he'd started, before I'd even realized, and once the first line was done, I couldn't turn back ever again.


The finished product turned out great, and everyone who has seen it has said that it is beautiful.  Save for my dad who said "you couldn't miss that."  He's still awaiting the day I get "Dumbass" tattooed on my forehead.  (And given the way I'm going on the "making good decisions path," it's likely to happen sooner than he thinks).  

It was difficult to get the whole thing in one picture

After considering the last two questionable decisions I've made, it leads me to wonder, do we really get wiser with age, or do we just pretend to have more experience?  Am I making the same mistakes in different forms?  Dogs, tattoos?  I can't say that I regret either choice, but I do recognize that at some point, I had second and third thoughts about both of them.  


Is ignoring your instinct part of growing up?  Or am I ignoring my instincts in the way that I want to ignore the inevitability of getting older?  


I'm sure there'll be other things, other times I question my judgement.  There'll have to be times I question myself or make mistakes--otherwise my life would be pretty boring.  And free of pet hair.