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.)
