I have a giant hippopotamus tattooed on my back.

It rises out of a pool of water and gazes at you from its perch on my right shoulder. A pair of lily pads float in front of its stubby legs, while its mouth lolls open in a slight grin.

My hippo was five years in the making. It started when my friend Shaun observed that I am “as subtle as a hippopotamus.”

The more I learned about them, the more I fell in love. Did you know that hippos spend the majority of their lives almost entirely submerged, with little more than their eyes and nose peeking over the water?

As a former competitive swimmer, a lifeguard and an all-around water aficionado, I instantly recognized my kindred spirits in these majestic beasts.

If I could, I would spend my entire life wallowing around in my own personal swamp, only taking breaks to bask in the African sunshine.

Also, though they look dopey and lethargic, hippos can run faster than any human being.

They are dangerous, fiercely territorial animals and one of the leading causes of human mortality in Africa.

I became convinced that I must’ve been a hippo in a past life.

So, last year I went into a tattoo parlour and told this guy what I wanted. He freaked out.

“Dude, that’s so awesome,” the guy said, stoked on the idea. “I’ve never done a hippo tattoo before.”

He told me to come back a week later to see his sketch. When I returned, he proudly displayed a large green outline of my future tat.

A giant gaping mouth sprawled open from the paper, water running out from between its gargantuan pointed teeth. The hippos eyes were narrowed into tiny white evil-looking slits.

“Uh, cool,” I said.

The truth was, that wasn’t my hippo and I knew it. I couldn’t go through life with something so menacing permanently inked on my body. I decided that my $50 deposit was a worthwhile lesson and I moved onto the next artist.

That’s when I met Brian, a huge red-bearded dude who specialized in black-and-white recreations of photographs. I brought him a Flickr photo of a hippo and a week later, I came to see what he’d come up with.

There it was: my hippo. It was love at first sight.

These days, I sometimes forget I’m carrying him around on my back. He’s become a part of me, like an extra appendage. My power animal.

At the beach, at the pool, anywhere I take off my shirt, I always get comments.

“Hey! Cool hippo!”

Looking back, I’m happy I waited until I was 23 to take the plunge. As a teenager, I was constantly staring enviously at friends’ tattoos and longed to join the club.

For years I was obsessed with the idea of getting an angel on my back. It would have enormous, sweeping wings — maybe even a flaming sword. I was a hardcore bible-thumper at the time. My other idea was getting the word “FORGIVEN” scrawled in fancy lettering somewhere prominent.

Holy shit, am I glad I didn’t go through with that.

My friend Danica, who had a similarly unfortunate religious disposition as a teenager, got an ornate cross tattooed on her spine.

Five years later, she’s spending hundreds of dollars to get it lasered off. She told me it hurts like hell.

Then there’s the girl from my high school who had the Roxy symbol tramp-stamped on her lower back. Bet she regrets that one.

Some people believe tattoos don’t have to have any deeper meaning. My buddy Austin has a zombie puking blood splayed across his torso and he told me he just thought it “would look cool.”

Fair enough.

But when I think about my hippo, and all he means to me, I’m glad I spent the time searching for him. It was like a long courtship before getting married — and everyone knows rushing a marriage is risky business.