My crazy impulsive youth officially ended yesterday with the removal of my bellybutton ring. I had it pierced when I was 19. I was bored on my way back to the dorm from class one Thursday afternoon. Thursday night pub night actually. My friends wouldn’t be back from class for another 2 hours so the drinking wouldn’t start until then. I had just gotten a GST refund cheque in the mail ($75), and the tattoo/piercing guy was in the campus salon that day (he was only there 2 days a week). I had been thinking about getting my belly button pierced for days at that point, ever since the Way Cool Tattoo sign went up in the little mini-mall on campus. So, cash in hand and with nothing else coming to mind as to what I could do with that money other than drink it away that night, I stopped in and had my belly button pierced.
Ah, those were the days, when my 18 year old belly made a weekly appearance at many a bar and night club on a weekly basis. My friends were shocked but thought I was soooo cool. My mother cried when she spotted it 6 or 7 months later (I was stretching in the kitchen when her eyes nearly bugged out of her head). And I thought it was the best thing ever aside from the tattoo I have always wanted but never got because I’m too chicken of the pain.
And yesterday afternoon, after strolling down memory lane with my husband, he helped me take it out. Why? Because you can’t get a pelvic MRI scan with a belly button ring in. All jewellery must be removed.
Now, I knew that I’d have to take it out some day. I’ve always known that one day I’d be pregnant and I’d have to take it out. I was fine with that. But who knew that just trying to get pregnant would put the kibosh on that so abruptly. Amazing how one little thing can symbolize so much.
Oh well.
As I look down at my flabby 33 year old belly, not so taught as it used to be, but my husband loves it just the same (he puts his good husband juju on it by kissing it every day), I recall that it’s all for a good cause. And the scar that is left behind will be a reminder to me forever of my youth, the past, how much my life has changed since then, and my future and future children, and how I’ll tell them this story one day.
It’s 10:01 am.
My MRI is in 29 minutes.
The future calls.
