Why I Don’t Want a Tattoo—at over 80, I’m Good Without the Ink.

At over 80 years old, I’ve survived enough trends to know they come and go faster than a cat on a hot tin roof—and let’s be honest, I don’t need them sticking to me like a bad burrito. These days, tattoos are popping up everywhere, like mushrooms after a rainstorm, and I swear there’s a parlor on every corner, faster than gas stations did back in the ’60s! I heard that the tattoo industry is on track to make a whopping $4 billion by 2032. My grandkids are walking canvases with their dragons and quotes, and I tip my hat to the artistry—really, I do! But when they ask, “Grandpa, why don’t you get one?” I chuckle and say, “Because I don’t want a tattoo, never have, and frankly, at my age, the only ink I want is in my printer ink.”

Back in my day, tattoos were for sailors, bikers, or fellas who’d seen the inside of a jail cell. I did my time in the Army—drafted in ’64—but I skipped the anchor or “Mom” on my bicep. Didn’t see the point. Now, I watch guys half my age strut around with sleeves and chest pieces, and I get it—it’s their way of telling the world who they are. Me? I’ve got over 80 years of stories in these bones. Don’t need a needle to spell them out.

For one thing, I’ve never been a fan of sticking around. I spent decades playing musical chairs with furniture alongside my wife, only to swap it out when she decided plaid was so last season. I’ve traded cars like Pokémon cards, flipped hobbies like pancakes. But a tattoo? That feels like signing up for a lifetime membership to a club I might’ve been totally bamboozled into joining. At my age, I’d just be left staring at some faded doodle, pondering why that abstract dragon seemed like a genius idea back in 2025!

And the pain? No thanks, I’ve got a full roster of aches already—my knees sound like a creaky old porch swing auditioning for a horror movie, and my back throws a fit if I sit too long, like a toddler denied dessert. Why add a buzzing needle to my list of woes? I’ve heard it’s not so bad, but I’ve also caught wind of tough guys wincing over rib tattoos like they just spotted a spider. I skillfully dodged shots as a kid and have grumbled my way through every flu jab like it’s a rite of passage. I’d much rather save my grit for hauling firewood than proving I can endure a tattoo session—it’s not like I’m trying to win an Olympic medal in pain tolerance!

But the real kicker? I like me as I am. This weathered hide—scarred from a fall off my bike at 12, wrinkled from summers fishing with my boys—tells its own tale. I don’t need ink to mark where I’ve been. Laugh lines, earned from a lifetime with my Wifes, say plenty. A tattoo wouldn’t add to that—it’d just feel like graffiti on a house I’ve spent decades building.

Choosing not to get one isn’t about being stubborn or old-fashioned; it’s more like a wise old owl saying, “Nah, I’ll pass!” After over 80 years of dodging trends, I’d like to think I’ve earned the right to say, “Thanks, but I’ve got my own vintage style!”

Maybe one day I’ll surprise them all—shuffle into a parlor and come out with a grizzly bear on my shoulder. Just kidding, I learned from all these years to not be so stupid. But for now, I’m content with my blank canvas. It’s served me well this long. Why mess with a good thing?