A Nose Knows

I finally got my nose pierced.

Only took 20 years.

The entire thing lasted about a minute, from lying back on the table to the actual pierce.

But boy did I feel the stud break through then barge into my nostril.

I had it in my head that this was going to be just like a medical shot in the arm.

Ummm, not quite.

This was the difference between a nail going into wood versus the graceful gliding needle at the doctor’s office.

Nothing to draw out, with one whack it was unexpectedly final.

For maybe 13 minutes afterwards I absolutely experienced buyer’s remorse and regret.

I couldn’t believe I let someone do that to me, let alone volunteer my own self up. And a hole still in my nose when I’m old and using a cane? What was I thinking?

Worse! I paid and tipped the guy. Matthew was his name.

Madness I thought.

However, once I got home and had a long left and right and left look … this new addition was exactly what I wanted.

Of course, that was then followed by me needing to blow my nose (which I was never good at to begin with), so another thing to get a grip on.

Anyway, I’m into Day 4, and I wish I had selected a larger stone as my starter stud, something a little more sparkly.


Check mark.

And now my nose accoutrement is a fact of me.

Happily so, I might add.

I will note this though. Getting my nose pierced has cured me of wanting a tattoo.

I’ve been batting around the idea of incorporating an old Aquarius sign (the water flowing from the vase) with a bird resting on a rosemary sprig tattoo.

I even settled where.

On my left wrist, down below my thumb, slightly inside, slightly out.

Oh sure, I heard that area is tender for ink … but I decided my tat needed to be in a place where I would always see it.

I’d say I was a year off from making it happen.

Well, Wednesday’s visit to the tattoo and piercing place took me back to what my real estate agent boss once told me, about clients hugging and work boundaries.

Eleni said: My motto is simple: If you’re touching me, you’re f*cking me. And since you’re not f*cking me, you’re not touching me.

A proper lady, without a hair out of place or a nail not polished, my boss’s uncharacteristic use of choice words made her teaching moment at first so out-of-blue shockingly funny.

But her message was sincere and bang on target.

Eleni’s motto has been marquee’ing across my brain since getting my piercing.

If you’re touching me

Now, slight pause here.

For the record, Matthew and his crew are lovely and professional.

I give them 10 out of 10 stars. Hell, I have an appointment to go back in 6 weeks to change my stud out for a hoop.

It’s just that … minus someone in a lab coat … it dawned on me this past Wednesday … that, well, I don’t want to go to a place of business, and have someone there get close up on me and ink a deeply personal symbolic scene on my body.

That is, not unless they can also tell me my favourite imaginary crayon colour whilst simultaneously locating the spot on my lower back, that, with the gentle caress of one hand, can, with very little coaxing, yeah, drive me wild and take me there.

I know, right?


Or, to echo my wise old boss’s sentiment.

When it comes to my rosemary bird water body art: Until Matthew and I start dating, I’m good without a tattoo.

Happy Saturday.

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