When I was younger and dumber I thought I wanted my ears pierced. I wanted them pierced so badly that it was consuming my life. All my begging and pleading was to no avail, my parents hearts were hard and they maintained that I had to be twelve in order to pierce them.
I wasted months trying to make a time machine before I realized that if others who were smarter than I had failed in this aspect I probably would fare no better. So I gave up the time machine. But not the idea of earrings.
If my parents didn’t change their minds then it would be a good three years before I could have the opportunity to bore a hole in my ears and stick sharp metal things in them. I didn’t want to wait that long to participate in such a desirable activity, so there were two options left. One, to perish of sadness and deprivation, or two, to take this thing into my own hands. Not being the type to perish, I chose number two. And plus, its easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
I waited until one night when I had been sent to bed, then sneaked out into my bathroom and shut the door. One of my friends had given me some studs, which had only added fuel to the fire, and now I brought these forth. I sat on the counter, and closing my eyes and screwing up my face, I stabbed a thick metal stud deep into my earlobe! I had thought that I had enough momentum to drive it all the way through, but it only went about halfway. So it took another couple of minutes of pushing and stabbing at my bloody ear to make a good hole. I washed off the blood and put the earring in, admiring myself for the brave, ingenious girl I was. Yes, I was gorgeous with that earring. But there was still another one to go.
About ten minutes later I poked my head out the bathroom, my glamorous ears glittering in the dim light. Now came the hard part. Breaking the news to my parents. I rehearsed a small speech to myself that I had planned for this occasion, filled with little tidbits about “this is my own life” and “these are my own ears” and “these are my own earrings” and “you didn’t want me to run away did you?”.
I walked in and sat on mom's bed next to her, with my hair tucked brazenly behind my ears. She didn’t notice. I fiddled with my ears. She didn’t notice. I finally grabbed the ends of my ears and thrust them toward her. She noticed.
Amid much wailing and gnashing of teeth I was hauled into dad for inspection. He laughed his head off, having more of an understanding of impulsiveness than Mom. Mom said he wasn’t much help. My earrings were taken forcibly from me, a feat accomplished by using rope, pliers, levers, and a lawnmower engine. I wasn’t going to give them up without a fight.
Finally I was sent back to bed, my ears cleaned and bandaged, and instructions to think about what I did wrong (I forget what it was.)
My ears healed right back up, and sadly, I don’t even have a scar to prove it.
I wasted months trying to make a time machine before I realized that if others who were smarter than I had failed in this aspect I probably would fare no better. So I gave up the time machine. But not the idea of earrings.
If my parents didn’t change their minds then it would be a good three years before I could have the opportunity to bore a hole in my ears and stick sharp metal things in them. I didn’t want to wait that long to participate in such a desirable activity, so there were two options left. One, to perish of sadness and deprivation, or two, to take this thing into my own hands. Not being the type to perish, I chose number two. And plus, its easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
I waited until one night when I had been sent to bed, then sneaked out into my bathroom and shut the door. One of my friends had given me some studs, which had only added fuel to the fire, and now I brought these forth. I sat on the counter, and closing my eyes and screwing up my face, I stabbed a thick metal stud deep into my earlobe! I had thought that I had enough momentum to drive it all the way through, but it only went about halfway. So it took another couple of minutes of pushing and stabbing at my bloody ear to make a good hole. I washed off the blood and put the earring in, admiring myself for the brave, ingenious girl I was. Yes, I was gorgeous with that earring. But there was still another one to go.
About ten minutes later I poked my head out the bathroom, my glamorous ears glittering in the dim light. Now came the hard part. Breaking the news to my parents. I rehearsed a small speech to myself that I had planned for this occasion, filled with little tidbits about “this is my own life” and “these are my own ears” and “these are my own earrings” and “you didn’t want me to run away did you?”.
I walked in and sat on mom's bed next to her, with my hair tucked brazenly behind my ears. She didn’t notice. I fiddled with my ears. She didn’t notice. I finally grabbed the ends of my ears and thrust them toward her. She noticed.
Amid much wailing and gnashing of teeth I was hauled into dad for inspection. He laughed his head off, having more of an understanding of impulsiveness than Mom. Mom said he wasn’t much help. My earrings were taken forcibly from me, a feat accomplished by using rope, pliers, levers, and a lawnmower engine. I wasn’t going to give them up without a fight.
Finally I was sent back to bed, my ears cleaned and bandaged, and instructions to think about what I did wrong (I forget what it was.)
My ears healed right back up, and sadly, I don’t even have a scar to prove it.
3 comments:
This story made me laugh out loud! You're hilarious. If my daughters ever decide to try that I am blaming you. :)
Aliysa,
Your mom first told me this story shortly after it happened and I could hardly believe it! I have to admire your spunk and courage...but I'm so glad you have parents that can laugh and still insist that you be obedient--obedience to parents who live the gospel is soooo important. That said, I think your ability to write humorously is amazing...you should try to get this published in a magazine--you know people pay for such engaging writing!
Aliysa. Oh boy was that story great. I just read it out loud to Preston for his bedtime story. We both laughed. Don't tell your mom but I probably would have let you keep them in after all that pain. ;)
Post a Comment