I COULD live with the small, but growing misgivings I’ve been feeling — until I saw in the coverage of the

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Tommy Lee has also used tattoos to declare his love.

Suddenly, I had a bit too much in common with a high school senior who a week before had declared himself a redneck on his MySpacepage, threatened to pummel anyone who messed with him and said he was “in a relationship but didn’t want children.”

Now, with the mother of his pregnant girlfriend running for vice president, he had cut his mullet, shaved his peach fuzz, swapped his hockey sweater for a rep tie and an American flag pin, and manifested his love with a ring tattoo.

Ouch.

Three years ago, I had a long argument with my intended. Having seen in Africa the effects of the world diamond cartel, I said I would buy her a ring with any stone she liked, as long as it was not a diamond. That was fine by her.

I also said I wouldn’t wear a wedding band. That was not fine.

I remained unpleasantly, belligerently firm. Boringly conventional and territorial, I said. Plus, in my previous marriage, I had actually become allergic to my ring, a nubbly circle of crafts-fair silver that snagged soap and left a red shadow of dermatitis on my finger.

My intended also held firm.

“It’s an important physical symbol of commitment,” she said.

I retorted, “If you want that, why don’t you just tattoo your name on.” I suggested a gluteal autograph.

She responded, “Because by the time any other woman saw it, you would already have betrayed me. But if you want to tattoo it on your finger, fine.”

We live in a heavily inked Brooklyn neighborhood, but I’d never seen a wedding ring tattoo. I liked the dare. If we actually made it to the altar, I said, I would.

We dropped the subject. She assumed I was pretending to have forgotten. But right after our honeymoon, in December 2006, I went to Rising Dragon Tattoos in the Chelsea Hotel. An artist named Cjay said he couldn’t do what I wanted: her name in 8-point type. Since ink spreads in skin, it would blur. But he sketched her initials in a stylized font, and I approved.

The artist in the next booth came over to kibbitz and burst out laughing. “A wedding ring? Tattoos are permanent, you know.”

Cynic, I thought. I was 52, I said, and didn’t plan a third marriage. And if it happened, and laser removal failed, I could cover it with a gang tat. The Pathetic Old Gits or something.

My spouse was shocked, but pleased. One of my daughters hated it, the other at least pretended not to. There was clearly one bit of genius in that — nothing makes a tattoo as unappealing to a teenager as seeing her father get one.

People sometimes ask if it’s tribal. It actually looks less Maori than L. L. Bean luggage monogram. But in some circles, of course, the late L. L. is a tribal elder, though I am not tempted to burn a Brooks Brothers sheep onto my chest.

Hearing the tale, most of my wife’s friends thought it romantic. Most of her English relatives were appalled. I’d expected sniggering. So what? We both liked it.

The first crack in my self-satisfaction came that Christmas from a new sister-in-law.

“You mean like Pam and Tommy?”

Huh?

An Internet search proved her right. Pamela Anderson had Tommy Lee’s name tattooed on her ring finger after their 1995 wedding. Until he betrayed her, after which she altered it to “Mommy.” He’d had hers tattooed on his penis. Classy.

Since then I’ve been painfully alert to this microtrend. An article on about.com described it as “an option for doctors and mechanics.”

And squinting at a cover of People magazine, I was pretty sure I read “Linda” on Hulk Hogan’s finger. The article, which didn’t mention it, was about his divorce.

Last year, Téa Leoni and David Duchovny had theirs done for their 10th anniversary. I admire their acting. He just entered rehab for sex addiction.

And recently, I blundered onto a Web site, AmIAnnoying.com. It lists permanently wedding-banded celebrities: Kathy Griffin, Ashlee Simpson, Jenna Jameson, Howard Stern.

I thought I had a way out of acknowledging Levi Johnston as my latest digital soul brother. His tattoo is in such delicate filigree that some blog commentators argued that it has to be a fake — a stencil or henna.

So I called up Cjay — whose real name, I learned, is Carl Jay Procopio — for a professional opinion.

“It could be real,” he said, looking at it on the Web. “Yeah, I could do that one, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s hard to make out, and as time goes by, it’ll bleed and fade.”

One way or the other, I suspect I won’t have to wait too long before Levi loses his.