Right eating = right running. Much better today. And found a way to make the new route a circular one rather than a there and back, which I much prefer. This one has some hills, which I always hate initially, but I always feel better after I run them, so that’s good too. Also (bonus!) I wind up back at the steps up the hill to the Muni, so I get to run steps at the end, right about the time that Pat Benatar starts belting out “Heartbreaker.” Perfect stair-running music! So yeah, no lead in the belly is a good thing.
I picked up the BoyChild afterward and headed home. At a stop sign he shows me his ear (cartilage) piercing. I may have already shared this, but his dad got it for him. I would have done so when the BoyChild started asking for it this past year, but was worried that his father would be pissy about it, and I do try to stay off his nerves if I can. So then the kid comes home with it done and tells me his dad took him. Well cool, I think, and even better when I find out that he had to go against his wife’s wishes to do it. Petty, I know, but it’s nice to know the man has a little bit of spine around her once in awhile. (She hates anything even hinting at “alternative,” and really tries to force my kids into being more conventional; it extends to coming down hard on him whenever he approves of something “odd” with them.) Anyway, the boy’s piercing is swollen and sore and infected, so I am helping him to keep it clean and hopefully un-infect it. I told him that if it wasn’t better by this Mon or Tues that we’d need to take him back to see “Stan the Man” at the piercing place.
“Oh, you know him, Mom?” he asks.
“Oh yeah,” I say, “he’s the best.”
“He pierced you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, then stop. He is looking at my ears, in which I have several lobe piercings and a cartilage piercing. Stan did not pierce my ears.
“Did he do all your piercings?” he asks.
“Ummm, no,” I say. Trying to think if I should just lie. We talk about everything, seriously, but, well, maybe not hood piercings. On me. That’s maybe a little too much information. Then I remember that he also did my belly piercing (which has long since grown out.)
“He did my belly!” I say, with maybe a little too much joy in my voice, spurred by the relief I feel at not having to lie.
Now he’s all “Whoa! You have your belly pierced? Cool!” And of course I have to tell him that it grew out and then we talk about how piercings sometimes just don’t work, and how to take care of them, etc etc and I am SO relieved that I didn’t have to lie, etc.
It is about twenty minutes later that I realize I was mistaken. Stan the Man didn’t pierce my belly after all. Got that one done at Iron Age. The only thing Stan has pierced on me is my cooch. Oops.
I don’t feel the need to confess my mistake.