Needle Nose
I'm almost thirty, that dreaded age where a woman looks down at her own breasts and says, "What the hell happened to you girls?!?!" I have two children, whom I adore, but honestly most days leave me wanting to run into our small downstairs bathroom and hide under the watchful eye of the lighted lavender Air Wick. It's not that I hate my life. I really don't. It's just that some days I am overwhelmed by all of the mothering, cleaning, laundering, and wiving. I feel older than twenty-nine, and not just thirty. I feel old. Like my bones are tired from working in the fields all day or washing clothes on a wash board.
Fine, I'm spoiled. I know it. My washing machine will wash three loads at once and my daughter likes to clean her room without my asking (begging). And yes, my husband is a cleaner who, by the way, is also a bit OCD. He can load dishes better than I can and washes clothes without turning all of our white socks pink. Often, he is the bathtub cleaner and toilet scrubber, and he seems to get a high from sweeping and mopping.
You think these things make my life easier? Sadly, they don't. They only add guilt. Watching my husband come home from the ghetto school where he teaches and has broken up knife fights, only to see him wash the whites because he's out of underwear and undershirts (again) brings me heap loads of guilt. It's not that I am incapable of washing whites. I even remember to add some bleach to really bring out the sparkle. It's that I don't think about it. I chase the children, write a little, read a lot, feed the kids, change diapers throughout the day, and run the family errands (grocery, library, yada yada). Yeah, sure, I sometimes (okay, often) rely on Steve, Joe, and Blue to hold my two-year-old son captive while I work on something. Sometimes, that something is a much needed shower or scrubbing crayon once again off my wall. Sometimes, that something is a more basic need than even showering- breathing, thinking, resting. Just time. That's all I'm asking for.
So, almost thirty and feeling ninety. Are you getting this? I don't work, I just finished my masters in education (3.9, thank you very much), and I'm tired of feeling tired. I want energy. I want to enjoy life more. I want to feel free. So what do I do? Yoga? Running? Colon cleansing?
Nope. I pierce my nose. If I cross my eyes and look to my right, I can see a small blue object blurring into my vision. I love it. It feels young, rebellious. I keep waiting for older members of my family (and my husband's family) to notice so I can watch their eyes cross as they focus on the curve of my right nostril. It makes me laugh that even at this place in my life, I can stir up old feelings within myself, fun and trouble. It's very youthful, I think.
Four weeks before I graduated with my M.Ed., I began my search for someone with a needle who took Visa. In Murfreesboro, I found a place (actually, a friend referred me) that would pierce my nose for a mere twenty-five dollars but, alas, they were a cash-only establishment. I never have cash. Because there's no paper trail with cash, it is a very dangerous comoddity for me to carry around. It evaporates into cheeseburgers and chick lit.
The next weekend, I drove around Nashville, where I live, looking for a not-so-scary tattoo parlor. Here's the thing- they are all scary. At least from the outside. I drove up Nolensville Road and down Thompson. Over to Donelson and Lebanon Road. Nothing. Couldn't even find a blinking 'Tattoo' sign anywhere.
One of my headlights went out as I drove down Donelson, so I pulled into an Advance Autoparts to inquire about a headlight and a nose ring. Surely, they knew of a place. Sure enough, they did, and soon I was driving down the street with a newly purchased headlight sitting in the front seat beside me. The place was down on the right, the guy had told me as he had rang me out. Up on the hill a little, with 'Tattoo' painted in red on the side of the building.
I was eleven at night by the time I finally found the place on the dark street, but the neon sign welcomed me to the door. Which was locked. Come to think of it, there were no cars in the parking lot. Only an old, gray unmarked van down the hill a bit. Uh...
I left, but not before I felt like I had escaped something beyond terrible as my inside shook from long dormant adrenaline. I probably wasn't in danger, but to this stay-at-home-ninety-year-old-mother, it felt exciting and scary. So I hauled ass out of there, my Grand Caravan throwing gravel as I pulled back out onto the road.
I was ready to give up. Seriously. Maybe God didn't want me to pierce my nostril. Maybe my husband was calling every tattoo parlor on my route and asking them to turn off their neon signs. Either way, I was frustrated. How hard could it be in this economy to find someone who wanted my money for a simple service rendered?
My children were either asleep or at my parents' house, I just know they weren't around, one Monday night when I decided to try one last time. I kissed my husband good-bye, he kissed my nostril good-bye, and off I went determined to finally have a freakin' hole in my freakin' nose. Four miles down the road, I turned onto a major street, Bell Road, and there on my left was a new tattoo parlor, Saints and Sinners. I pulled in, amazed that I was so close to home and, possibly, about to end this long conquest.
When I walked in, there was a mother sitting on an overstuffed brown leather couch with a tweenage boy beside her and a baby carrier at her feet.
"Is it moms' night at the tattoo parlor?" I asked.
She laughed and said, "I'm getting my nose pierced."
Oh, thank God. They actually did that here! I signed in and took a permission/I-will-not-sue-you form from the guy at the jewelry counter before landing on a brown leather swivel chair that would have held my entire family home asleep in their beds. Name, address, driver's license number... Insurance? Why would they want my Blue Cross information? I wrote it down anyway, turned in my clipboard, and then waited for my name to be called.
It was a little like being in a doctor's office, oddly enough. I sat watching CNN as the mom (and her baby carrier) were taken back for the deed. I was listening to Swine Flu reports a few minutes later when the mom came out, no screaming, no tears, and a peaceful baby still sleeping at her feet. Couldn't have been that bad.
The piercist called my name, his speech slightly slurred by the numerous rings that hung from his lower lip. I could see through his nose septum, the color of the walls shocking me from within the small black ringed opening. I didn't see any tattoos on his skin, but that didn't mean anything, I reminded myself.
In the back room, the piercist introduced himself, although I can't remember what his name was. Something common, like Steve or Bill. I had expected Lucifer or Theirry. Something dark, but nope. Just a common name, completely forgettable.
He explained to me how this would work, about how the needle was hollow and wouldn't leave tear marks on my skin (only a tiny, clean hole), and how he would insert the nose screw into the needle before taking the needle out of my nose, leaving the diamond studded nose screw in place. I didn't actually understand, but it didn't matter. I wasn't going to pierce myself, right?
In a manner of moments, the needle was through my nostril, pierced from the outside. I could feel the sharp of the needle resting against my lips as I tried to hold still. My eyes aren't watering, I remember thinking. I must be a champ. A little tugging, a little pushing, and the needle slid out leaving a beautiful sparkle nestling my skin. Perfect.
Okay, fine. I'm still going to be thirty in July. Nothing about me really changed at all, except that I did. I feel different. There's something exciting about seeing that small, now blue, stud in my nose shining back at me in the sunshine. I love when other moms (tired and sagging) stop me (tired and sagging) to comment on how cute it is, how brave I am.
Honestly, at my age, a nose piercing is better than botox.
1 comment:
Loved reading your adventure! You are a great writer...to keep busy-body sleep-deprived me interested takes something good!
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