I cannot believe I am writing about this, but I feel this overpowering need to weigh in.
Tattoos are the thing these days. Virtually everyone has them. I go to the gym Monday through Friday almost every week. I notice them around the weight room. I notice them in the locker room.
Men have them. Women have them. Old or young? Doesn’t matter. Old folks are tatted up right along with the youngsters.
I cannot recall the youngest person I’ve ever seen with a tattoo. So, I won’t go there.
The old guys have them likely from their days serving in World War II or Korea.
Long ago, way before my sons were born, and before I met the girl I would marry, I made a vow to my father. No tattoo ever will scar my body.
Dad implored me not to get one as I was getting ready to be inducted into the Army in the summer of 1968. He was adamant about many things while counseling me about what would lie ahead: I would learn to hate long lines, sleeping in pajamas and I would hate most of the so-called “food” I would get at the mess hall. He spoke of that dish known commonly as “s— on a shingle,” which is chipped beef served on toast. I did manage to tell Dad upon my return in 1970 that I actually liked that stuff.
He was right about long lines and sleeping in jammies.
He also regretted the tattoo he got while serving in North Africa during World War II. As I remember it, he got one while on shore leave from the ship on which he served. I also recall him telling he was, shall we say, more than slightly inebriated when the got the tat artists to put the design on his upper arm.
He regretted it every day of his life. Dad begged me not to get one while I was away in the Army.
And to honor my father’s fervent wish, I never once even entered a tat parlor.
I haven’t to this day.
I had vowed years ago to be the last man on the planet to get a cell phone. I declared victory in that effort as I purchased my first device. I’ve since upgraded to a smart phone.
That said, I now will vow to be among the last men on Earth not to have a tattoo. Others can ink their bodies to the max, to their hearts’ content. If my sons ever get tats, I don’t want to know about it.
Me? I’m declaring my battered old bod to be a tat-free zone.