Dirty Little Secret #417

One thing you may not know about me is that I have a body piercing. I have a belly button ring. It's the most rebellious thing I've ever done. I've always justified it with that it's not permanent.

I got it 4 years ago, back when everyone was doing it. I was a junior in college and I had just gotten out of a very very serious relationship. Some new girlfriends I made were all eating lunch one afternoon and the subject came up. We decided right there that after lunch we would all get it done.

Luckily, finding a tattoo parlor in Athens isn't hard; there's one on every street. We were practically yelled at at the first place we went, the second place was closed, and we ended up at the third place, where we never heard good things about. I went first.

I was able to hide it from my parents for about 2 years. Then my mother went into one of her rages and started snooping through my truck looking for drugs and other criminal offenses. That's when she found the receipt. I kept the receipt as a memento. It felt good to stare at the tattoo parlor logo and see my name and credit card info printed on it. It felt rebellious and sometimes I'd just stare at it and remember that I'm not entirely a goody goody.

I told myself I was only going to keep it for a couple of years. When I graduated from college and had to get a real job, I would take it out. Become serious physically in addition to mentally and emotionally.

I was sitting at work this morning and, by habit, I stuck my hand to my belly button ring. It's a gesture I've done since before I've ever had it. When I was 18 I'd pinch the skin at the top of my belly button, imagining one was there. It's become a nervous tick for me.

I had just gotten out of a meeting and was thinking about all the work I had to do by Monday afternoon. I had been debating taking Monday off all week and it was clear at that moment that this was not a possibility. I stuck my hand to my belly button. Something felt wrong.

I lifted up my shirt and noticed that the top ball on the bar was missing. All I saw was a threaded stud. I dropped to my hands in knees in my cubicle, trying to find a steel ball that measures no more than 4 mm. Needless to say, I couldn't find anything in the patterned carpet.

During my lunch hour, I drove around looking for a tattoo parlor to get a new ball or a new bar. I don't do malls. Only 14-year-olds go to malls for body jewelry. I'm to hard-core for that. Besides the cleanest and best quality stuff is sold at the tattoo parlors, believe it or not.

I didn't think finding a tattoo parlor in Atlanta would be difficult, but it turned into every Cingular store, Wachovia, and State Farm agent-- you see them all the time, but when it's actually time to go there, you can't find one to save your life. I drove around all freaking hour with no luck. I am the only person who cannot find a tattoo place in Atlanta.

Frustrated, I turn around and head back to work. Then I see the neon lights I've been looking for. Inside the guy informs me that he doesn't have any, but the porn store next door sells dangly belly button jewelry. I've never known a porn store to pierce, so I decided to skip that place and head on. Then I see another tattoo place 3 blocks ahead (I told you they're everywhere.)

This guy laughs when he sees me walk in. I guess most of his customers don't wear Ralph Lauren sweater sets. He is out of plain steel, but has plenty to sell me from his 14-year-old juvenile collection. I could choose from cherries and 69 and a marijuana leaf. I went with a clear stone, which is supposed to resemble a diamond, I guess.

Here it is, your reward for reading this far: