A dignified piercing

I finally darkened the door of a tattoo parlor. Shocking at my age. Although, in my defense, I chose one in Eagle (an upscale neighborhood) rather than an establishment on the seedier side of town.

I've talked about getting a tattoo for years, but was never willing to commit. Ink under one's skin seems so permanent; and the artistic submission requires such absolute trust. I'm not really comfortable giving that kind of submission under the best of circumstances. Bestowing it upon some pierced and tattooed stranger is a bit of a reach.
But I went.
The purpose of this particular visit was to acquire a tastefully subtle piercing. Jewelry makes me happy.
Although,
I know a woman who voluntarily pierced twin peaks (shall we say?) of decidedly feminine and extraordinarily sensitive tissue. I confess to a certain fascinated horror at the contemplation of that particular procedure. I've seen the handiwork, though, and it does lend an exotic flair.
For myself, I was after something....else.
I chose a navel piercing. A delicate diamond gracing my waistline...just there...to draw the eye inward, and contribute to the illusion of a tiny waist.

My sister, Amanda, took me, and promised to hold my hand.

The proprietress greeted me with a look of disdain reminiscent of a teenager rolling her eyes. After hearing my intention, she explained that this kind of thing hurts, and often results in "some pretty gnarly infections" that may take up to a year to heal. Then she turned her back to me and went about her noble and valuable tasks. If she expected to throw me off with this kind of rude and appalling behavior, she nearly succeeded. My inner rebel took over, though, and I decided that a snot-nosed-brat was not going to keep me from my goal. She was, however, going to wield the piercing tool.
This sort of piercing is not to be undertaken lightly. Nor ought it to be undertaken without a round of antibiotics.
There is a clamping tool employed on the flesh prior to the actual impalement. This I was not prepared for. I averted my eyes, grimaced in agony, and squeezed the fragile bones in my little sister's hand.
"Kelly, she hasn't really started yet," Amanda whispered.
Which was strictly true. The clamp was uncomfortable in the way that childbirth is uncomfortable. They pull all this flesh way out from the body and snugly secure it with clamps for the purpose of aligning the piercing implement.
Then she drove the stake through my skin. It didn't break through without resistance. Indeed, my valiant flesh put up quite a fight, before the little nail was gained passage. That was unpleasant.
"You gonna faint?" the tattooed woman thoughtfully inquired.
I was actually closer to punching her in the nose, but that hardly seemed fair.

Amanda paid for my fun, as my 40th birthday present.
It was quite a little adventure. I'm glad I did it.
I have had repeated "gnarly" infections.
And I will never,
ever,
in a million years,
get a tattoo.