My grandpa (1891-1981) had tattoos on both his forearms courtesy a weekend liberty when he was about 17. By the time I was a lad, they had faded mostly into a big blur. He said, "Boy, don't ever mark up your body with ink," when I was about seven or eight.
I've never considered getting one for myself. I am sure that there have been remarkable advancements in this sort of thing from those notorious days early in the 20
th Century.
For me personally, they are a distraction. My eyes would rove from that person's face (if we are close and conversing) or to that person's entire body (if we are somewhat apart.) I'd be thinking: What does that represent? Why there and not elsewhere? Lemme see...so far I count four; I wonder if there are others.
Doubtless they are artistic. Doubtless for many they tell a story or have a special meaning. Doubtless they are a source of comfort or individuality. But they are not something that appeal to me.
I still can hear Groucho Marx singing about Lydia. . . . .
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