I've Got Me Under My Skin

My first Grown Adult Epiphany happened at age 18 in the übergigantic Metrocenter Mall in Phoenix.  I loved that place.  It was a 45-minute trip from Tempe and, though my VW could not resist blowing tires on the freeway, I made that drive most days after class - just to stand in the middle of more people than resided in the whole state of Wyoming.

Plus, it had an indoor ice skating rink.

The epiphany came to me courtesy of Brenda, another Manzanita Hall dorm dweller who accompanied me occasionally.  She was from Nebraska, so she shared the thrill of riding those escalators and staring at the cart that sold pretzels as big as our heads.

As we wandered by a shop offering free ear piercing with the purchase of really pointy earrings, I stopped suddenly and decided to do it.

Brenda was aghast.  "But ... your ears are already pierced!"

I knew this information.  I had kind of pierced them myself in sixth grade with "self-piercers."  Simple, right?  Position sharp metal hoops on each lobe and give a little squeeze every day for several weeks until they had no choice, but to pop through.  Except that I faked it and pretended to push.  Hey, those things hurt!

Mom's self-piercers worked like a dream, popping through in the first week.  But she'd already lived through more than one real labor and delivery scenario, so what's the big deal about nails in your ear lobes?  (No irony is lost on the fact that, years later, I also pretended to push during my only real labor and delivery scenario when I had Abi.  The nurse finally put a gun to my head.)

When my sixth-grade ears were FULLY infected, the wires came out so a professional with an earring cannon could finish the job.  In our little town, this unfortunately turned out to be the same doctor who delivered babies, removed gallbladders, and pronounced people dead at the Old Folk's Home.  I mean, nothing noteworthy ever got by this guy.

"I know that, Brenda," I offered nonchalantly, "I pierced them myself."

The look on her face gave me all the impetus I needed for the next line.

"I just think it's high time I got another set of studs."  I hoped my eyebrows hopping up and down might detract from the sweat dripping off my palms onto the shiny tile floor.

Brenda almost started to cry.  "But ... just think," she whined, "how will it look if you're ever a GRANDMOTHER?!"

Cue the epiphany.  It occurred, as epiphanies often do, with a *gasp*.  (I know, I know, there is a lot of *gasping* in this life.  Someday I'll write The Shocking History of the *Gasp*.)

"Brenda!" I shrieked *gaspily*, "Life is not a contest!  Exactly zero prizes are awarded for dying with intact ear skin!  If my grandchildren ever think they'd love me just a little more if I had shunned a second set of ear holes back in 1976, then I have let the whole human race down on several very important levels!"

I sprinted in to get the pointy earrings.

Brenda agreed with the high points of my rant; however, she did not get anything pierced that day.  But she may have had her own epiphany, because I overheard her tell one of the anorexic girls that showed up in the TV room on our floor every day at 2:00 pm to watch Days of Our Lives, "No, it's really good to have a little skin resting on your lap when you sit down - otherwise, you'll tear when you stand up."

Eighteen years is apparently plenty of time for some of us to get this whole thing figured out.

Olderlies know how easily soft skin yields to piercing, and it is our life's mission to rein in just enough danger to keep the independent Youngerlies alive.  (Sample bit of gentle guidance from a mom who works in ICU: "You are right that it's your decision, Sweetie, but you'll get your tongue pierced over my dead, four-holes-in-the-ears body!")  (Translation:  "Many infections above the neck head straight for the brain.")

I took care of enough trauma patients to know that even the most private piercings will out themselves on x-ray, making the ER a perfect place for 'real life' checks.  Eleven earrings in one ear?  Okay.  Hoops in both nipples joined by a chain?  No biggie.  Something sharp stuck through a soft spot anywhere else?  Those things are not important in a trauma bay.  When the radiologist determines that sharp thing was there before the gunshot or knife piercings started, he'll move on to the next image.

The reason behind the piercing is more important than the placement of said decoration.  I do not personally know many Olderlies getting pierced (their money is on the real skin changers, like face lifts), so life-theory-wise, we're looking at more evidence of youthful rebellion.

When my daughter Abi wanted her belly button pierced she did not need my permission, but I went with her anyway.  Pretending to be totally on board gave me the chance to check out the sterilization procedures at Freaks on Broadway Tattoo Parlor before they touched her.  (I took pictures to prove to myself I'd been there in case I accidentally tried suing later on.)

But the part of that day that has stayed with me was when a young customer with wooden bobbins the size of soup cans through her ear lobes said, "Wow.  Cool.  If my mom had come with me the first time I probably wouldn't have all of this." Then she revealed several interesting metal constellations between her forehead and shoulder blades.

I do not believe accompanying Youngerlies is as important as listening to their reasons for wanting the eyebrow dumbbell, or the tiny nostril star, or the new set of horns somehow imbedded in their skull.

Maybe if they explain their rationale out loud to one person who would gladly take a bullet for them, those new horns might seem like something that can wait.

(Not crazy about the names the next generation has for us?  Get over it, you Successful Ager, you!  Next week we'll use our ancient imaginations to figure out what we're supposed to call them back.)