Rub Some Dirt On It

My daughter decided to get her ears pierced this past weekend. Since ramming a metal object through your skin leaving a permanent hole is a tad intrusive, we left the decision up to her. She’s old enough to make an informed choice and care for her body afterwards, so off we went. Now, there was a bit of uncertainty on her part due to what appears at first glance to be a distinct possibility for immense pain. We assured and reassured that the pain involved was actually very minor and fleeting. She consulted her friends in what I suspect was some attempt to confirm our words were not some sort of parental ruse like those associated with dentistry or inoculations or falling off a bicycle. The skepticism was healthy, but it was her idea and a bevy of 4th graders confirmed her parents’ truthfulness.

It is at that point in the story that horror and humor intersect. She bravely marched into the earring store and proclaimed her readiness for a harmless poke of beauty enhancement. We, the parents, proudly followed. But as we filled out consent forms, which in and of itself made her suspicious, three boys got their ears pierced. These boys, and I’m using the term loosely for reasons I’ll shortly explain, were with a large group of girls. There were sisters and mothers and aunts and cousins. There were no men. I point this out because I now have proof the absence of a male father figure degrades manhood. I promise you I thought one of the boys had been shot. Victims of the Spanish Inquisition did not scream any louder or cry any more than these boys. Not one, mind you. All three. I was horrified because my brave girl was watching, yet it was quite possibly the funniest not funny thing I’ve seen.

I know, I know, the humanitarians reading this are wondering what is funny about someone’s pain. That’s just it. There was no pain. They take a felt marker and put a dot where the hole will be placed. I kid you not, the boys screamed when the marker touched them. I repeat, the marker, not the earring. Brian Boitano would have said, “Suck it up.” If Johnny Weir was walking by in his cat suit fixing his makeup, he would have stopped and said, “Be a man. It’s a marker.” Even Jason Brown would have said they’re being melodramatic, and that’s like Liberace calling someone flamboyant or Arnold Schwarzenegger commenting on an accent.

Now you’re wondering what my daughter thought of all this wailing and crying. First, the alarm was obvious. Then doubt creeped forward. We, once again, reassured. The poor girl piercing ears, who was at this point on the verge of a nervous breakdown, reassured. My child pressed on. Yes, at one point she reverted to a Tae Kwon Do double block learned three years ago and only ever used once (at that moment), but she went for it. In the end, she simply said, “That’s it? What was wrong with those boys?” What indeed, my dear. What indeed.

Dads of the world, it’s time to step up. Let’s practice together.

“Rub some dirt on it.”

“Walk it off.”

“Ah, you’re fine.”

All phrases that must return to society before boys everywhere pass out at the mere thought of a felt maker touching their ear lobe.