I own you.
At the time, the whole lip-ring deal was somewhat about change, and somewhat about fashion. To this day, I'm not certain. But let me assure you, this, like any story worth telling, is all about a girl. (Picture the girl) THAT girl, the girl next door, Mary Jane Watson …
OK, so maybe the beginning isn't quite as dramatic as a Spider-Man movie intro, but this story couldn’t have happened without the cooperation of one of my many crushes-gone-bad. Subject: Elizabeth, a 2004 tenth-grader with a brand new lip ring.
Infatuated as I, a then-high school senior, was, Lizzie walked into the classroom with that damn thing hanging from her damn, gorgeous lip, and I went nuts. However, retracing, I believe that - at the time - she could have walked in and sat next to me with a faucet glued to her forehead à la Bart Simpson, and I would have thought it was hot. That’s how bad I had it for this honey.
“Does it look OK?” asked the teasing devil.
Anyway, ever since, I wanted a freaking lip piercing. Why? It wasn’t about wanting to look like her, of course. But perhaps it was about the guy she liked (not me, obviously) having one. That's how I remember it.
Whatever it was, the thought of wanting to get that piercing remained in my head even after years of dismissing Lizzie in my heart. So even though she's partly responsible, it wasn't for her. Then, in 2008, fresh off what had seemed like a life-long imprisonment of a relationship with a different girl, I finally felt mature enough to be immature and get my lip pierced.
Yay.
I got home with my lip swollen three times its original size, to the shock of my family. My mother swore she wouldn’t speak to me ever again. My grandma thought I had lost my mind. My dad didn’t even say anything to me, which scared me more than my mom and grandma’s reactions together.
But they all got over it, and I got positive feedback from female friends, which was the reaction I cared about the most.
The thing about a lip ring is that it makes you stand out, for good or for bad. Some people make you out to be a rebel without a cause, or the member of a death-rock band lost in the halls of a college campus. But some people will understand that it’s simply a piece of metal around your lip, and just think it either looks good or it doesn‘t. The only constant is that they will all ask you the same thing, “did it hurt?”
“For about a second,” I said about 300 times in the 24 months I kept the thing.
Sundial publishers made fun of it, sports information directors asked what THE HELL it was, head coaches gave it puzzled looks, but eventually, they all grew accustomed to it. It was a small price to pay for countless chances to use the rebel look in everything a rebel look can be used for. That and toying around with the piercing all day long spelled: F-U-N.
But like an idiot drunk with power, I ruined it all. Instead of using the mighty force of the lip ring for good, I misused it and dug my own swagger’s grave. All in 18 months. Went from highest to lowest. And all because of a girl, again. I think she wanted a ring on it, à la Beyonce, but I couldn't give mine up.
But that’s a different story.
The lip ring wasn’t fun anymore, it reminded me of the good-times-transformed-into-bad-times times. I downgraded to a stud, feeling it’d be the needed change that would stop those reminders. It didn’t work. Six months went by and, today, I don't get those reminders too much anymore, but I am sick of this metal in my face.
It's off for good.
It’s not even about change, although I welcome it. I’m simply tired. Surely, I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow screaming, “What have I done?” But at this point, and using a phrase I despise, “I’m over it.”
Will this be the end of Spider-Man? Er, I mean, Alonso? Hopefully not. Like my hero, Will Smith, says, “it’s all about the lyrics you throw at the honeys.”
Or something like that. LOL.
OK, so maybe the beginning isn't quite as dramatic as a Spider-Man movie intro, but this story couldn’t have happened without the cooperation of one of my many crushes-gone-bad. Subject: Elizabeth, a 2004 tenth-grader with a brand new lip ring.
Infatuated as I, a then-high school senior, was, Lizzie walked into the classroom with that damn thing hanging from her damn, gorgeous lip, and I went nuts. However, retracing, I believe that - at the time - she could have walked in and sat next to me with a faucet glued to her forehead à la Bart Simpson, and I would have thought it was hot. That’s how bad I had it for this honey.
“Does it look OK?” asked the teasing devil.
Anyway, ever since, I wanted a freaking lip piercing. Why? It wasn’t about wanting to look like her, of course. But perhaps it was about the guy she liked (not me, obviously) having one. That's how I remember it.
Whatever it was, the thought of wanting to get that piercing remained in my head even after years of dismissing Lizzie in my heart. So even though she's partly responsible, it wasn't for her. Then, in 2008, fresh off what had seemed like a life-long imprisonment of a relationship with a different girl, I finally felt mature enough to be immature and get my lip pierced.
Yay.
I got home with my lip swollen three times its original size, to the shock of my family. My mother swore she wouldn’t speak to me ever again. My grandma thought I had lost my mind. My dad didn’t even say anything to me, which scared me more than my mom and grandma’s reactions together.
But they all got over it, and I got positive feedback from female friends, which was the reaction I cared about the most.
The thing about a lip ring is that it makes you stand out, for good or for bad. Some people make you out to be a rebel without a cause, or the member of a death-rock band lost in the halls of a college campus. But some people will understand that it’s simply a piece of metal around your lip, and just think it either looks good or it doesn‘t. The only constant is that they will all ask you the same thing, “did it hurt?”
“For about a second,” I said about 300 times in the 24 months I kept the thing.
Sundial publishers made fun of it, sports information directors asked what THE HELL it was, head coaches gave it puzzled looks, but eventually, they all grew accustomed to it. It was a small price to pay for countless chances to use the rebel look in everything a rebel look can be used for. That and toying around with the piercing all day long spelled: F-U-N.
But like an idiot drunk with power, I ruined it all. Instead of using the mighty force of the lip ring for good, I misused it and dug my own swagger’s grave. All in 18 months. Went from highest to lowest. And all because of a girl, again. I think she wanted a ring on it, à la Beyonce, but I couldn't give mine up.
But that’s a different story.
The lip ring wasn’t fun anymore, it reminded me of the good-times-transformed-into-bad-times times. I downgraded to a stud, feeling it’d be the needed change that would stop those reminders. It didn’t work. Six months went by and, today, I don't get those reminders too much anymore, but I am sick of this metal in my face.
It's off for good.
It’s not even about change, although I welcome it. I’m simply tired. Surely, I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow screaming, “What have I done?” But at this point, and using a phrase I despise, “I’m over it.”
Will this be the end of Spider-Man? Er, I mean, Alonso? Hopefully not. Like my hero, Will Smith, says, “it’s all about the lyrics you throw at the honeys.”
Or something like that. LOL.