You know what really frosts my flakes?
Tattoos!
I took my grandchildren to a community Halloween event in Texas today.
Want to guess which booth had the longest line of kids patiently waiting?
It wasn’t the booth handing out full-size candy bars.
It wasn’t the one offering extra-sugary drinks.
It wasn’t even the booth giving away pumpkins.
It was the booth offering free tattoos!
Apparently, children can’t wait to get started decorating themselves.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m convinced Grandpa Grumpy is the last American over 18 who doesn’t have a single tattoo etched somewhere on his body.
Everyone else looks like a walking art gallery, and that leaves me wondering:
If I stop to admire the collection, will I be charged admission?
Do I need a program guide explaining the meaning and significance of each hieroglyphic?
And can someone explain the proper etiquette for reading tattoos?
For example, if a woman has a paragraph tattooed across her chest or thigh, am I supposed to read it or pretend I don’t see it?
Because I’m pretty sure staring is frowned upon, but apparently the artwork is supposed to be admired.
Recently, I’ve watched a young woman on social media who seemed exceptionally mature and thoughtful throughout high school. Then, as soon as she turned 18, she promptly got half a dozen tattoos.
I guess adulthood now comes with a driver’s license, voting privileges and a complimentary ink cartridge.
But, what’s with people my age still getting tattoos?
Our skin is already sagging like a hammock that’s been holding 10 bowling balls for 30 years.
You get a beautiful tattoo of a soaring eagle 10 years ago, and today it looks like a chicken falling down a flight of stairs.
I just don’t get it.
I grew up believing our bodies were masterpieces created by God.
So, whenever I see someone covered in tattoos, I can’t help thinking somebody handed a 3-year-old a box of crayons and told him to improve the Mona Lisa.
Now, I know tattoos can have deeply personal meanings. Some commemorate loved ones or important milestones.
But, I prefer to remember those milestones without needing a dermatologist to erase them if I change my mind.
I’m Grandpa Grumpy, and if I ever get a tattoo, it’ll be 3 giant letters across my chest — DNR — at least that one might come in handy someday!