I was at a doctor's office in a small town recently and overheard one patient in the waiting room talking to another.

"There are four tattoo parlors on Main Street and not one dress shop. Is it me, or has the world run off the track?"

"No, there's still a dress shop on Main Street," his friend said. "It's in the back of one of the tattoo parlors."

There was a time when people would buy clothes to cover up their tattoos. Now they buy clothes to show them off. The thong peeking above the low-rise jeans worn by a woman on a barstool doesn't begin to cover her butterfly tattoo. The guy in the sleeveless T-shirt sitting next to her has a green snake coiled around his arm.

There was a time when you could live your whole life, except for an outing to the circus, and never meet a woman with a tattoo. Now all it takes is a trip to the grocery store. Like so many things, tattoos have moved overnight from the realm of renegades, delinquents and outlaws to the world of PTAs, debutantes and church picnics. I know husbands and wives who have given each other tats as birthday presents: "Honey, I love you so much I'm paying to have a guy stick needles into you all afternoon. I hope it doesn't get infected."