June Renew: Day Twenty-One
Piercing Prodigy
Not sure how many of you know this, but I had my tongue pierced once. Well, twice. Three times, technically, but I’ll explain. It was something I had always wanted to do, as I had some kind of piercing pain wish back in my late teens/early twenties. So at the end of freshman year, a friend and I took a trip to a downtown Chicago tattoo place to get a bar through my tongue.
And yes, it hurt. A lot. It swelled up so bad and it hurt to talk for a good four days. I had to be extra careful I didn’t chomp down on it while talking. And then there was the added pressure that I’d have to hide it from my parents when returning home to Jersey. But for now, I had something fun to play with, and the added idea that I was somehow badass for doing something millions of people had done before me. And yet there I was, defying social norms and signaling to everyone certain implications that come with jamming some jewelry through one of the body’s strongest muscles.
The Hole in the Sun
I was terrified by the notion that my mom would see it. She wasn’t crazy about my bellybutton ring, nor the thirteen ear piercings I had acquired in one year. So I really went out of my way to hide it, by getting a flesh-toned top screw that actually looked convincing enough to fool my mother. Or so I thought.
Mom helped me pack up the remaining stuff in my dorm room and we spent the night at a hotel before our early morning flight from O’Hare. I felt confident that she didn’t see anything invading in my mouth, and that she wouldn’t notice my newly-acquired ever-so-slight lisp. When we were in the air, we were both talking and I turned to her, yawning big, not realizing the sun was beaming through the open window, right onto my sparkly little ball.
I noticed my mistake immediately, and so did my mom. “You got your f*cking tongue pierced?!” she asked through gritted teeth, keeping her voice down as to not make a scene. I knew it was pointless to lie and I confessed. She was angry, but only told me not to tell my dad, as the response to that may not have gone as swimmingly.
I kept it in for another year and a half, only letting the hole close up after one drunken night in Germany, when I took it out briefly for cleaning and dropped it down the bathroom sink drain. I got it re-pierced in senior year, this time successfully hiding it from both my parents until I took it out again, though I can’t remember the specific reason that prompted that decision. I had all my ear piercings taken out by a professional post-graduation on the idea that I needed to “grow up,” and I think that applied to the tongue too.
Getting it Speared Myself
I don’t regret the piercing. I liked having it. It was fun to play with and wiggle around in my mouth. I got two small chips in my teeth from it and will forever have a divot in the center of my tongue, so I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it if you’re on the fence about it. Because at some point, it just didn’t fit my persona. I’m not this overt slag who showcases what she’s into; a daring kinda broad with a sadomasochism streak. It’s just something I did. Twice. And then once to myself after I found my old jewelry in 2015. I disinfected it overnight before taking three days to jam it through the closed hole, practically re-piercing it myself and keeping it in for another two years.
I probably wouldn’t do that again, but there’s clearly a wild streak within me somewhere. It just doesn’t manifest in modification anymore. I can be expressive without taking these extreme measures that say a lot more about me than I care to have said at this point in my life. Still happy I did it. No regrets still pecking at my psyche.
Oh, and my dad knew. The whole time. No idea how. Mom must have told him. She always said I couldn’t hide anything from her. Really poking a hole in my concealment skills.