(ear)ringing in the new (fun!) year
I'm here to tell you that Operation Have More Fun in 2006 (it would sound so much better if it were still 2001) is officially under way. You'd think Erik and I would have been slowed down by our dutiful adherence to the Fatkins diet over Christmas (fyi my stocking was filled with 36 individually wrapped Double Stufs) but this week is actually shaping up to be more than just watching Inspector Lynley while moaning about our full stomachs. We have done that twice since January 1st, but we've also managed to arrange some non-couch, non-eating fun. Yesterday I went all out in my ever-faithful Zara, blowing a gift certificate and then some. Tomorrow it's dinner with two other couples. And tonight we're going to a huge blow-out with, as it says on the invitation, "Malmö's party elite," which promises to be loud, sweaty, and disappointing. This whole "elite" business is also ridiculous because 1. The party is held in the largest night-club in Malmö 2. Two people like us whose idea of a party is Inspector Lynley and a bowl of chips managed to score invitations from our much more social friends and 3. "party elite?" Duh.
But forget tonight, Monday is when the real shit went down anyway. After exchanging our brand new super-sharp chef's knife for a brand new super-sharp un-nicked chef's knife, we left that shopping center and headed for another. (Can't you feel the fun starting?) At this next mall, I made my way to a natural beauty store I would have loved when I was 13, pored over and rejected birthstone earrings I would have loved when I was 10, and pulled my hair away from my ears with bobby pins like I was 7. And then I got shot. With a piercing gun.
That's right, I now have pierced ears.
It all started 26 years and 9 1/2 months ago when a little girl named Amy was born. Despite growing up with three older brothers, she was girly through and through. This meant a childhood filled with dolls, nail polish, and an easy-bake oven. It also meant wanting earrings baaadddly. Alas, I knew early on that I would have to wait until I turned 12 for that particular girlish pleasure--mom's rules.
So I waited and drooled over friends' ears and made due with those glow-in-the-dark sticker earrings they sold at the roller skating rink. As 12 approached I started collecting. I even had a large holder for earrings that hung in my closest: a pocket for my clarinet earrings (which I knew were dorky even then), a pocket for my ceramic frog earrings (which, on the other hand, I deemed cool), and a pocket for the most treasured earrings of all: two-inch, beaded, rainbow hoops. My mom even bought me a picture book related to my passion.
One day soon after my 12th birthday my mom, a friend, and I went to the pharmacy where the magic would take place. I don't remember much about the event, but I'm guessing it was happy and not particularly painful. A month later, I took out the piercing earrings, and put in one of the pairs I'd been waiting to try out. When I looked in the mirror something unexpected happened. I didn't like it. I looked too fancy, too prissy. I tried for a week or so to adapt but I eventually had to admit that earrings just weren't "me." I let the holes close and retired my earring holder to the back of my closet.
The years came and went and I never once doubted my decision. I took almost a strange pride in it, in fact, and fancied my twelve-year-old self rather mature. Secretely, I even wished that the mark of where I once was pierced would disappear and that my lobes would become smooth and virginal again.
Things began changing about a year and a half ago. I went to a party where a friend of a friend was selling her homemade earrings. They were long and layered and some of them even had feathers. I loved them so much and I couldn't have them. Around the same time I found a single clip-on earring in a relative's jewelry collection. It was a big, art-deco triangle. I tried unsuccessfully to work the one-earring look with it and then turned it into a neckalce.
I didn't say anything for another year or so but inside I started thinking. Maybe my twelve-year-old self was only part right. Earrings weren't right for me then, but I might have grown into them. What struck me then as the creepy attempt of a child to look like a woman, could now be something else entirely: an adult embracing her femininity. But I wanted to be sure. I sat on the idea for a good long time, and then I made up my mind.
On the day I got the news about the job, I decided to reward myself with pierced ears. I went to the shop, I picked out the earrings but then I backed out, feeling a little lonely. I didn't need the piercing to be the ceremony it was when I was 12, but it was kind of a big deal for me. As everything seems to right now, it represented some further step away from my childhood and an exploration of who I am today. So when I went back on Monday, Erik came with me and documented the occasion.
That serious look on my face is not fear, it's concentration and resolve. And possibly just a little bit of nervousness over why the girl with the gun kept hesitating, catching my cheek in the trigger, and saying apologetically, "It's just that you have such small earlobes." Um, what? No I don't. But small or not, they are prettier now--or at least more fun.
But forget tonight, Monday is when the real shit went down anyway. After exchanging our brand new super-sharp chef's knife for a brand new super-sharp un-nicked chef's knife, we left that shopping center and headed for another. (Can't you feel the fun starting?) At this next mall, I made my way to a natural beauty store I would have loved when I was 13, pored over and rejected birthstone earrings I would have loved when I was 10, and pulled my hair away from my ears with bobby pins like I was 7. And then I got shot. With a piercing gun.
That's right, I now have pierced ears.
It all started 26 years and 9 1/2 months ago when a little girl named Amy was born. Despite growing up with three older brothers, she was girly through and through. This meant a childhood filled with dolls, nail polish, and an easy-bake oven. It also meant wanting earrings baaadddly. Alas, I knew early on that I would have to wait until I turned 12 for that particular girlish pleasure--mom's rules.
So I waited and drooled over friends' ears and made due with those glow-in-the-dark sticker earrings they sold at the roller skating rink. As 12 approached I started collecting. I even had a large holder for earrings that hung in my closest: a pocket for my clarinet earrings (which I knew were dorky even then), a pocket for my ceramic frog earrings (which, on the other hand, I deemed cool), and a pocket for the most treasured earrings of all: two-inch, beaded, rainbow hoops. My mom even bought me a picture book related to my passion.
One day soon after my 12th birthday my mom, a friend, and I went to the pharmacy where the magic would take place. I don't remember much about the event, but I'm guessing it was happy and not particularly painful. A month later, I took out the piercing earrings, and put in one of the pairs I'd been waiting to try out. When I looked in the mirror something unexpected happened. I didn't like it. I looked too fancy, too prissy. I tried for a week or so to adapt but I eventually had to admit that earrings just weren't "me." I let the holes close and retired my earring holder to the back of my closet.
The years came and went and I never once doubted my decision. I took almost a strange pride in it, in fact, and fancied my twelve-year-old self rather mature. Secretely, I even wished that the mark of where I once was pierced would disappear and that my lobes would become smooth and virginal again.
Things began changing about a year and a half ago. I went to a party where a friend of a friend was selling her homemade earrings. They were long and layered and some of them even had feathers. I loved them so much and I couldn't have them. Around the same time I found a single clip-on earring in a relative's jewelry collection. It was a big, art-deco triangle. I tried unsuccessfully to work the one-earring look with it and then turned it into a neckalce.
I didn't say anything for another year or so but inside I started thinking. Maybe my twelve-year-old self was only part right. Earrings weren't right for me then, but I might have grown into them. What struck me then as the creepy attempt of a child to look like a woman, could now be something else entirely: an adult embracing her femininity. But I wanted to be sure. I sat on the idea for a good long time, and then I made up my mind.
On the day I got the news about the job, I decided to reward myself with pierced ears. I went to the shop, I picked out the earrings but then I backed out, feeling a little lonely. I didn't need the piercing to be the ceremony it was when I was 12, but it was kind of a big deal for me. As everything seems to right now, it represented some further step away from my childhood and an exploration of who I am today. So when I went back on Monday, Erik came with me and documented the occasion.
That serious look on my face is not fear, it's concentration and resolve. And possibly just a little bit of nervousness over why the girl with the gun kept hesitating, catching my cheek in the trigger, and saying apologetically, "It's just that you have such small earlobes." Um, what? No I don't. But small or not, they are prettier now--or at least more fun.
posted by Amylou at 10:11 AM
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