Midlife crisis, an ongoing saga
A few weeks ago I accompanied a friend to a piercing studio. I entered the earthy shop in a nearby suburb armed with more expectations than I care to admit. A collection of tribal masks, idols, and tools on display seemed both cliche and indicative of the collective pain captured within these walls. But a generous display of environmental and animal rights magazines on the tables, the trip-hop drifting from hidden speakers, and the soft-spoken woman behind the counter balanced the aesthetic.
The only pain we’re into is our own.
I felt a little out of my element. While my friend filled out forms, I sought the familiar: a display case of sterling silver bracelets and pendants. Next to it was another case twinkling with mysterious metallic objects. What was this stuff? Where did people put these things? How did they get them in? A quick browse through the studio services catalog cleared up some of the confusion.
As my friend situated herself for the procedure, I prepped for my role as official hand-holder.
I listened as the piercer explained the tool sterilization process, the horrors of piercing guns (I had no idea. Did you?), and the after-care process.
Then it was showtime. I grasped her hand and watched as metal clamps pinched flesh, as the hollow tube and needle joined, penetrated, and retreated to make way for the metal ring.
Zip. Zap. Done. No blood. No shrieking. Not even a clenched fist or jaw. Morrissey wailed “Meat is Murder” through the speakers.
Did I feel faint? offended? disgusted?
I wanted one, too.
So, you know, I got one.
Midlife crisis. When does it end?