For my 37th birthday, I pierced my nose.
I was on a fall vacation in Maui lying on warm rocks by a swimming hole listening to the friend beside me chat away, but all I could focus on was the small, sparkling stud that adorned her nose. I’d had a fascination with nose piercings for a while. There was something alluring to me about the women I knew whose delicate noses were bejeweled; each one seemed artistic, free-spirited, and exotic...a far cry from what I’d known as a little girl growing up in dark, cold Northern Europe.
My first real sense of Who Am I? in terms of fashion came in my late twenties when I became a teacher in a progressive school. I threw myself into that liberal world wholeheartedly; my students called me by my first name, instead of giving letter grades, we wrote long narrative reports on each child, and I wore overalls to work. I had at least four different overalls from corduroy to denim and wore them with my Converse or heavy work boots. And yes, I did think I was all that. Not that overalls are all that extreme, but there was a definite search for identity involved. After all, I was the one who couldn't wait to grow up and dress like my mother in her Swedish, middle class uniform of slacks, skirts, blouses, pumps, and an Hermes silk scarf knotted around her neck. This was not that.
A decade later, I lay on a rock in Hawaii; I was about to turn thirty-seven and was again contemplating what was next for me. Before the day was over, my friend stood beside me in a tattoo parlor. Pain shot through my nostril. I started laughing hysterically in a panic as the blood rushed from my head. This was not what I had envisioned. First of all, my nostril was red and sore and stinging, and imbedded in it was a large, metal stud - - a starter piercing, if you will, that would need to stay in for at least a few weeks. Second, it hurt! And finally, I was told that I’d need to soak the piercing in warm, salt water every couple of hours for the next twenty-four. Flash forward to my ten-hour flight back to NYC the next day with my nose dipped into a paper cup for most of the flight. Really.
My process from this to the sweet, bedecked nose I had envisioned would apparently take time. And patience.
Enter Zen.
Now, I am a very, very patient teacher. In fact, I am at my most patient with my students, no matter their age. One of my assistant teachers, upon meeting H. for the first time, exclaimed, “I love your sister! She’s so Zen!” H. smiled politely, but no sooner had he left us than she turned to me and said, almost gritting her teeth, “Zen? When are you Zen? I’d like to see a little of that Zen!”
In all fairness, H. was at that time my roommate and that experience did apparently not spell Z-e-n to her. Most of my impatience is directed at myself. Give me a child who needs to redo a math problem five times. Piece of cake. Give a classroom full of five year-olds with glue sticks and scissors in hand? I can usually breathe through it. But give me a tough stain on my stovetop that isn’t gone Right Away? No can do. I imagined H. with a montage of my best unzenlike moments flashing through her head: Why won’t this printer just print ALREADY? Where are my keys? Where’s my f*#king wallet? I’M LATE! Why can’t I cook an artichoke without burning it – just ONCE?!?!
Back in New York, my piercing was received with varying degrees of enthusiasm and a few eye rolls. Unsatisfied with the metal stud, I - too soon - had it replaced with a small, sparkling bit. Within days, the stone fell out, so I walked around for a week or two with an empty, metal socket in my nose. I tried again. Alas, this stone fell out as well. It was promptly replaced by an obstinate pimple larger than the stud itself. I steamed it for what felt like weeks and weeks to no avail. I gave up.
Within three months of the initial piercing, I was standing in my bathroom naked drinking scotch. I was trying to twist out the metal nose screw (this is the technical term, by the way) but it was the Mary Poppins bag of nose screws. No matter how much I twirled, there was more to come. My nostril throbbed. I twirled. I sweated. I swore.
H. came home hours later to find me in a heap on the couch, nose screw on the coffee table.
Five years have passed. I believe I'm a more patient person now thanks to yoga, meditation, more yoga and, quite frankly, the simple mellowing out that happens over time. And the perk to aging, at least for me, is becoming ever more comfortable with myself.
I turn 42 tomorrow. In celebration, I painted my toes a muted purple. And just to appease my wild side, I painted my fingernails, too. That oughta do it.
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