I subscribe to a certain theory in regards to the monumental decision to brand oneself with a tattoo. Namely, before one gets a tattoo they should imagine themselves looking at that tattoo in twenty years, or, at the very least, after the tequila wears off. Case-in-point: I’ll never forget a guy I dated who showed me his Hebrew-worded tattoo and very matter-of-factly told me that it meant “strength” when, (unbeknownst to him and because I am fluent in Hebrew,) I knew that it actually meant “cow.” This date’s misguided tattoo is a story I relay to anyone I know who is about to get inked.
Being a parent, it is my responsibility to teach my kids to be confident, and that confidence isn’t entirely based on one’s outward appearance. I am personally not a proponent of aesthetic plastic surgery for minors, but as a father of boys, I feel very empathetic towards boys and young men with gynecomastia. The treatment, (breast reduction surgery), is the only aesthetic surgical procedure that I will perform on children.
After the birth of my second child who was delivered via C-section, I was left with a small but noticeable area of extra skin which, despite my best efforts to minimize, I have not been able to improve. That sweet baby boy, the one who just refused to get into position in-utero, is now 11 years old and lovingly tells me he is “so sorry that my tummy has a flap that hangs over.” I have finally come to accept the cold hard fact that without a true tummy tuck I will never be able to wear a bikini again.