The other day I began to seriously toy with the idea of getting my nose pierced…not a bull-like nose ring or anything, but a small stud on the left nostril. After speaking to the guy at the piercing/drug paraphernalia place, I meditated on it for a few days, and ultimately decided to ignore his strong hints toward the contrary, (inevitably stated because he thought I couldn’t handle the pain) and go for it.
Now, I have not done this because I think I will be on the cutting edge of anything. In fact, in my book, piercings and (horrors) tattoos are actually passé, and make you more of a trend follower than trend setter. And I wasn’t trying in vain to appear more “radical” and “wild” than I really am, I honestly and simply think that small nose studs are pretty and feminine.
To be honest, part of me felt like this experience would provide an interesting topic for my blog….like I am LA’s version of Carrie Bradshaw, except that I am writing for about three readers and certainly not for a major publication, and I am not writing about something as fascinating than NY’s singles scene. Other than that, I guess I could be my own little version of LA’s Carrie Bradshaw sans the hyper fashion sense (and sometimes hyper fashion nonsense) and three slutty- best- friends- to- varying- degrees that I can run ideas by. And don’t worry, I am well aware that there are probably more dissimilarities than I can address here, like the fact that I have grandmom arms and Carrie is ripped.
I bet you want to know what it felt like, right? You have already read the title of this entry so you know the gist of it. Well, when we got there, we had to wait about 15 minutes until they were done piercing this guys nipples so they could get to me. And after it was over, the guy came out of the back room doing a little jig, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad on my little nose. Looking back, I realize that he probably had to get tanked to be able to go through what I now know is the most painful of piercings, and that the jig could have been a means of celebrating the fact that the pain of his nipples dying was now over. Who wouldn’t dance?
I wish I could say that I didn’t sweat through the experience, and that seeing my husband’s face turn pure white when the piercer held up his weapon didn’t phase me. And I wish I could say that I didn’t utter a surprised terribly foul word at the sheer but mercifully short- lived TORTURE of having a small spike thrust through my innocent little nose.
Now that I have gone through the mini- trauma of getting a tiny hole poked through my nose that I will very soon regret (I’m no fool), I have NO IDEA how or why anyone gets anything pierced except their ears, and the thought of getting one’s tongue pierced sounds worth than anything (hahahaha – I wrote “worth” instead of “worse” on purpose).
I keep looking in the mirror, expecting my nose to be visually throbbing in and out, instead of just feeling like it is doing so. Like a newly pierced nose straight out of a Looney Tunes movie or something. And maybe there are birds flying around it, too. That would be neat.
When I am not looking at it, I am dreading the time that will inevitably come when I have to blow my nose, or much worse…SNEEZE. The piercing guys warned me about the painful sneezes. And I don’t think I have ever gone more than two hours of my waking life without sneezing.
But for now, husband Rob finds my adorned but throbbing nostril sexy. But he will have to admire it from a distance for a while. Sorry, dude. And, sorry, Mom.
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