Remember how in 80s movies, everyone always hung out at the mall? And they ate frozen yogurt and went shoe-shopping and got their ears pierced? Well, guess what I did on Saturday: went to the mall, ate frozen yogurt, went shoe-shopping, and got my ears pierced, and this was all in the suburbs, so obviously I win some sort of grand 80s nostalgia prize. Like, maybe a slap wrap. Or a pair of jelly shoes. Or a signed videotape of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, or hell, maybe all three of these things, packaged nicely together in a miniature backpack. Made of denim. Acid-washed denim.
But hold up just a darn sec, did I just say I got my ears pierced? Why, yes, my friends, I did. Or rather, I got them re-pierced. You may not remember this, you see, as it happened way back in 2005, when the only people reading this blog were Sean, my sister, and---fairly awesomely---Susan and Marcheline (hi, Susan and Marcheline! Thanks for keeping the faith! You should get a medal for longevity!)---but almost four years ago, my earring tore straight out of my earlobe, slicing it clean in two. Whoops, hope you weren't eating when you read that! Hey, have a look at this picture of it, it's even better!
Anyway, after this ear-ripping happened, I got the tear sewn up---by the world's most incompetent doctor, incidentally, who at one point suggested that since I needed pain meds and a co-worker of mine needed pain meds, he'd just write me a prescription for 100 Percocet AND HAVE US SHARE IT, IS THAT NOT ILLEGAL?---but the experience was so traumatic that I just....well, I never got my ear pierced again. Instead, to solve the problem, I wore my left earring in the second hole of my left ear---a remnant from the late 90s, oh like you didn't get that pierced to annoy your parents too---and my right earring in the first hole of my right ear. Crafty, huh? I am nothing if not a problem-solver. And I did this for four years! And for four years nobody noticed!
And then my beautiful turquoise wedding earrings arrived last week---something new, something blue, two birds, one stone, BAM---and suddenly, like a long overdue wake-up call, I realized how utterly ridiculous it looked to have one of my earrings so much higher than the other. Whoops! Only took me four years!
And so I decreed that I would put on my big girl pants and get my ears pierced, oh yes I would, and I would do it here and I would do it now, CLEAR MINDS, FULL HEARTS, CAN'T LOSE. And since Moose and I found ourselves in a suburban mall on Saturday---which is, in and of itself, an entirely different story, the moral of which is that I was swiftly reminded why I don't like to go to malls in the first place, suffering as I do from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from my days folding hoodies at Abercrombie and Fitch---the timing seemed fairly fortuitous. I saw a Claire's, beelined towards it, marched up to the counter, all grit, spit, and courage, and said PUT SOME HOLES IN MY EARS PLEASE, LADIES. I'M READY.
Except turns out I wasn't quite so ready.
Alert the media, I think this might be the most flattering picture of me ever taken!
It all went fine, of course, and I am now the proud owner of two eensy-weensy silver studs in my lobes---I got the right one pierced again too, because it looked like it might also rip out at any moment---as well as that lingering sense of shame and depression that comes from being the oldest person in a store by a good fifteen years. (Claire's! It's full of tweens! Why aren't they home drinking Sunny D and reading TigerBeat articles about the Jonas Brothers!) I'm not supposed to take them out for six weeks, but I think we can all pledge not to call the Hillsdale Mall Claire's in San Mateo and tattle on me if I do it (briefly) after three, am I right? Honor code!
How'd you like to be a 29-year-old woman who has to carry this very subtle and dignified bag around the mall for the rest of the day?
Speaking of age, I was asked for my ID before I was allowed to get my ears pierced, and Moose, upon hearing this, looked at the piercer questioningly. "How old do you have to be to get your ears pierced then?" she asked.
"Three months," replied the piercer, writing down my date of birth on the form.
"Hot damn," I thought, impressed. "That new anti-wrinkle cream is totally working."