Navel idea

The Great Navel Piercing of 2002 went a little something like this:

I was out of town with my friend Paige visiting our friend Stephan at Ferris State University. Someone, somehow decided we needed to head to the new tattoo parlor-- just to look. I had gotten a small tattoo on my back (insert “tramp stamp” joke here) when I was a few months shy of 18 and wasn’t looking for any more ink, but Paige and Stephan were both open to the idea. We spent a decent amount of time there, talking to the shop owners and perusing the different designs, but neither of my friends found anything they wanted permanently etched onto their skin.

I felt bad about taking so much time there not getting anything. Or at least that was my excuse for letting the possibilities of what kind of alterations I could make to myself roll through my mind. And then I noticed the body piercing station. For 20-year-old Laurel, the choice was obvious.

See, at 20, I was in the brief, brief period of life where I had no one to answer to but myself. I was old enough that I didn’t feel completely under the authority of my parents, and young enough that I wasn’t yet married. I didn’t spend every waking minute dissecting the long-term implications of my every decision. I wasn’t this Laurel-- the one who reads articles about the best way to cook grilled cheese with genuine interest and who uses the words “poo-poo” without a hint of irony. Every square inch of my body belonged to me and me alone, and at that moment, I knew exactly what one square inch of my body was missing: A belly piercing.

The process took about 3 minutes, from start to finish, and I loved the result. Even at 20 I never ran around showing my stomach, but my new little barbell was there and I knew it, and that was enough.

Andy hated it immediately. He had already outgrown the teen he was-- bleached hair and pierced ears-- to become the much more conservative version of himself he is today. He hates tattoos and body piercing, and I had one of each. But in all honesty, I really didn’t care. I loved him, but back then, I still had some things that were just for me.

I made him a deal I’d take out the belly piercing when I got pregnant-- partially to placate him and partially because the idea of a big, pierced, Prego belly made me queasy.

True to my word, the day I found out I was pregnant with Kat in 2006, I took out the piercing. Because I always read into everything to deeply, I felt like I was tucking away the remainders of my not-so-rebellious youth. And it made me kind of sad.

Along with my belly rings I put away my plans to go sky diving, my dreams of owning (or hell, just riding) a motorcycle, and my late nights at the bar. Because despite what they say, you can’t have it all, and I was willing to trade that life for this one. I was responsible for someone else, which meant I had to take care of myself. My body, suddenly, was no longer mine and mine alone.

I all but forgot about the piercing until yesterday, when it began to itch a little. It occurred to me that I’m done having kids, and I could put the old belly barbell in. Andy was horrified at the idea. He reminded me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m too old for that sort of thing (at 28 ?!?!). And while most of me-- the apron wearing, cookie baking, POINTS counting, diaper changing, wifey/momma me-- agreed, something long forgotten spoke up from some dark recess of my brain and said “dooooo iiiiiit.”

So I did. Or at least I tried. I dug out the old metal and tried to reclaim my not nearly misspent enough youth. But it turns out I had outgrown it. Literally. The hole, while mostly still there, has closed over just enough that I’d have to re-pierce a little bit of it. And while I could accomplish that goal with a little rubbing alcohol and a safety pin, I choose instead to take it as a sign.

That part is done. It was fun, but it doesn’t last forever. And that’s for the best.

But for now, I’ll take comfort in knowing that somewhere, beneath the thickly layered façade of the uber-domesticated housewife, there’s the scar-tissued reminder of the slightly spontaneous, slightly irresponsible, slightly pierced version of myself. And she is bad ass.