The latest installment in my incessant quest to NOT look like a typical suburban 33-year-old mother of two happened today. I got my belly button pierced. White-middle-class-perpetually-sheltered-from-the-harsh-realities-of-life Jennifer Anne drove to a highly recommended tattoo and piercing establishment (after making an appointment, of course), showed my ID (to prove I was more than 18) and watched like a hawk as the pleasant and well groomed piercing technician (?) washed her hands, gathered her supplies, and cracked the sterile seals on her medical-supply-store-acquired 12 gauge needle and surgical steel barbell. She marked my belly and stood back with one eye closed trying to figure out where to put the ring… apparently I have an asymmetrical navel. Go figure. The actual event hurt like hell… reminded me of childbirth only blessedly shorter, but has been fine since. As long as I don’t bend at the waist. Or, apparently, swim for 3 months. Perhaps I should have waited for beach season to be over.
I brought along my oldest dearest friend, for moral support and so she could get hers done too. She came through the piercing fine, but got, as predicted, ghostly pale and not a little wobbly when she stood up to admire the piercer’s handiwork. I brought her cookies, but she was nauseated enough to wait until much later before attempting to increase her blood sugar. Kindly, and with as much consideration as I could muster, I refrained from telling her about the chest tube insertion I assisted on at work yesterday, thinking it might not help us get home any faster. But, once her fingers stopped tingling and her head cleared, her perfectly symmetrical innie made for a beautiful site (don’t tell T, or he’ll want to photograph it) for ornamentation. And she walked out upright. Hooray for her.
So in the end, we both got pierced, and we both look cool. I now have further inspiration to work on my abs, so that my new piece of jewelry does not disappear into folds of flab. Hey, whatever keeps you moving, right? I figure the added bonus is a good fitness role model for my equally white-bred suburban offspring.
At the end, I got back into my minivan (complete with 2 carseats) and drove myself back to the suburns where my nice little picket-fence nuclear family awaited me. But DAMN, I look cool.