Yin, Yang, & Yoga

I decided to try my hand (actually my whole body) at Yoga. A good friend of mine suggested that it was a great way to work through life stresses and exercise the muscles. I did a little Googling and discovered that Yoga is often recommended for women over 35, for various reasons. I signed up online for a one week trial at the local Pink Lotus Yoga Center.  Being the overly ambitious, jump right in, type A that I tend to be, I chose a different class every day for the following seven days. Yup. You read that right…SEVEN days: Friday to Friday. They offer a large variety of classes and I wanted to get the most out of my one week trial (and the money I paid for that trial). I dressed in what I thought was appropriate Yoga attire & headed out for my first class. I walked in fifteen minutes early and the experience began. First of all, let me say that the class could not be more appropriately decorated or located. It’s in the Old Mill building, complete with rugged rock walls and gypsy-like décor. I love it.

I signed in and watched all of the seasoned, experienced yogis and followed along like a hesitantly excited puppy. I grabbed my mat roll, two blocks, a blanket and a bolster. I found a comfy spot near the middle, yet close to a window. I sat in what appeared to be the standard Yoga-style sitting. Then, suddenly, I noticed everyone else was barefoot. Ok. I admit, I should’ve known that yoga was a barefoot-princess type sport. I got a little freaked. How many people had walked on these rock floors? How often had they been washed (or NOT washed). I swallowed my anxiety and slowly removed my socks and shoes (gulp).  Oops, I digress…

The class began and it took all of 10 minutes for me to be all in. I followed directions, copied poses, opened my heart and my mind and found the poses to be surprisingly comfortable to perform. I can do this, I thought!  I can’t wait for tomorrow’s class.  The 75-minute class went by in a flash. As a side note, at the close of the session, the instructor says a little mantra about going forward and doing good things, which I found very inspiring.  I attended the next two classes and was equally enthralled with hem.

Three classes down and it’s Monday. Monday’s class is “Gentle Yin.”  I was feeling a bit under the weather from all the pollen that keeps trying to bully my sinuses and considered cancelling. “Oh,” I thought, “it’s the Gentle class, though. It’ll be relaxing.” Beginning to feel much like one of the regular yogis, I found my usual spot, took on the starting position, and got ready. Oh wow, was I in for a treat (insert snarky grin and a little eye-rolling here). 

I vaguely remember the instructor giving this little speech about how this Yin Yoga was a good way to “let go” of the negative things that plague us and that it can be difficult for some people. How was I supposed to know she was talking to me???  The class consists of six spine poses held in “relaxation” positions for seven minutes each with a short stretching session between. The first pose lasted forever. I was pretty darn sure it was way longer than seven minutes. I readjusted. I fixed my bolster pillow. I put a block under my hip. I tightened my pony tail. I scratched my ear. I resituated myself (a few times). Someone across the room was breathing in an almost-snore rhythm. Someone else made a whistle sound each time she exhaled.  The couple next to me had on matching bracelets. I couldn’t concentrate, for God’s sake! There was nothing to concentrate on. By pose three, my inability to relax was quite obvious. The instructor came over (I heard her coming), laid beside me and we had a short whisper-voice conference. “It’s really hard for some,” she said with empathy. “Your body is reluctant to let go,” she explained. She tapped my back and my hips and made some suggestions. “Just breathe in and relax here,” she suggested. I thought, “I AM relaxing!! My body just won’t listen!” I realized in that instant that I was the ADHD person in the room…there truly is no existing Yin to my Yang. I struggled through the next three poses and when the class was finally over, I quickly gathered my Yoga accessories and headed for the door. The teacher stopped me, she was so kind and looked at me so sweetly. “Those that struggle the most with this class,” she said, “need it the most.”  I’ve been chewing on that all week (but that’s for another post). 

I am so plagued by thoughts of my inability to sit still and/or to relax. I Googled again. Evidently, Yin and Yang are supposed to go hand-in-hand as contrary forces that are interconnected and balance each other. I’m out of balance. I have to go back. I will go back.  After all, I have to (somehow) find the Yin to my Yang.  Stay tuned.

Check it out: 

For information on The Pink Lotus Yoga Center     

http://www.pinklotusyogacenter.com/

For more Yoga humor:

http://www.rodalesorganiclife.com/wellbeing/10-things-a-yoga-teacher-learns-about-you-within-the-first-5-minutes-of-class

Choose Marriage

Lessons about Marriage from a Divorcee

So often when discussing married life with my still married friends, I catch myself saying, “Who am I to give advice? After all, I am divorced.”  Just last week I was talking relationships with a friend and I dropped my famous line. She immediately retorted, “WHO better to give advice than a divorced person?” I’ve spent a week chewing on that. She has a point, I told myself. Who better to give advice than one who tried and failed and has spent years looking back, reflectively? That’s me.  Since I separated from and, subsequently, divorced my husband, I’ve spent countless hours analyzing our 15 years of marriage, identifying errors & indiscretions (both his and mine), pondering possible solutions, and wishing I’d had been a different wife. Perhaps divorce was our fate. Perhaps we could’ve/should’ve tried harder, or for longer. Those things, I’ll never know.

Here, for what it's worth, is what I do know:

Show up.

Showing up, ready to work is 50% of the job, any job. Marriage is a job. So, show up. Be present. Be available.  Be attentive.

First & Last

Make your spouse the first person you say good morning to and the last person you say goodnight to (not your children, not your pets, not FaceBook). Your waking thoughts should involve your spouse and so should your dozing-off thoughts. When they don’t, there’s a bigger problem.

Say what you need to say.

Convey your thoughts and feelings to your spouse. He deserves to hear them, to ponder them, to reflect on them, and to use them to better know you. You deserve to be heard, to share your thoughts and emotions, and to feel free to use your voice.  Bottled up thoughts and feelings fester and will, eventually, spew. It is much more difficult to listen and to understand thoughts that are conveyed out of frustration or anger. Avoid that. Think first, then speak. Never stew. Never spew.

Save the sarcasm.

There is a fine line between being sarcastic and being witty. Skip the sarcasm at home. Save your sarcasm for being the life of the party, for making your friends laugh, or for the rude cashier at the drive through. Spare your spouse. Don’t use sarcasm to give your emotions a voice. You’ll be misperceived and misunderstood. Sarcasm is passive aggressive and, all too often, hurtful.

Go to bed mad.

I’ve always heard that you should never go to bed mad. Boooooy, do I disagree. When making any big life decisions, we’re always advised to “sleep on it.” I find that to be much better advice. It’s ok to go to bed angry.  It’s okay to sleep on it. You’ll probably discover that when the next morning rolls around, you’ll feel less agitated than you did the night before. You’ll be more rested and probably thinking more coherently. Your thoughts will be easier to convey and, probably, better understood. Go to bed mad. Wake up rested.

Apologize.

It takes two: two to get along and two to argue. Apologize when you’re wrong (and you will be wrong). Apologize sincerely. Apologize even if you don’t understand. Apologize even if you don’t agree. Apologize simply for hurting his feelings. Apologies move mountains.

Do YOU.

It’s so easy to merge yourself with your partner, especially in the early years. But I caution you to not let yourself get lost in the “you” you are with him. Stay in touch with yourself: the things that you like to do, the healthy habits that you’ve formed, the parts of your personality that make you unique. Marriage is about compromise and synergy, not sacrificing. You can synergize yourself with his self but don’t sacrifice your wants, your needs, your likes, your hobbies, or your dreams. You’ll grow resentful and the marriage will cease to flourish. It will flounder and begin to fail. Be YOU. Do YOU. He will love you for you.

Don’t BE grateful.

Don’t be grateful. Gratitude is silent.  SHOW grateful. We often feel appreciation that we struggle to portray to our significant other. Contemplate what makes him feel grateful and learn to show it in a way that he can perceive as appreciation. Don’t be too proud to compliment or to say thank you. Give your gratitude a voice.

Bridge the gap.

As life happens, you will occasionally grow apart. It will happen but it doesn’t mean it’s the end. Make the effort to bridge the gap before it becomes a great divide. Stay alert. Notice the gaps as they form. Like any other small problem in life, it’s best to address it early on before it grows and is irreparable. Practice damage control. Bridge the gaps, quickly and efficiently.

If you want a partner, be a partner.

It’s the golden rule of marriage: be what you want your partner to be. If you want him to work with you, work with him. If you want him to make you feel loved, make him feel loved. If you want him to appreciate you, appreciate him.  If you want him to be affectionate, show him affectionate. It’s easier said than done. Believe me, I know. But, it CAN be done.  

Choose marriage.

In today’s world, divorce is widely accepted and often seems to be the “easier” route. However, it’s a choice to give up.  It’s a choice to get divorced. Choose marriage, until and unless you have NO choice. For as long as you feel you have a choice, choose marriage.

Note: Because I am a heterosexual woman, I default and refer to a spouse as "he." However, the road runs both ways, folks.

Eating my Words (with a few drops of oil)

I’m not a sellout. I’m not a buy-in. All of my friends and family know it. I don’t do the fancy chef thing, the scrapbooking extravaganza, or the secret panties club. I don’t want the free facial, the extra points or the fancy stick on nails. None of that. I don’t go to parties and I don’t host parties. No ifs. No ands. No buts. So, when one of my good friends began selling (and pushing) essential oils, I stuck to the rules. “No thank you,” I said. I ignored the testimonials, the invites to classes and the firm nudging to “just give it a try, Karla.” I thought, “I’m NOT doing it. I’m not buying in. I will not sellout.” I taught preschool at the time and many of my co-workers bought in, many of the mothers bought in. I stood strong. Admittedly, I truly thought they were all a little bonkers.
Let me digress. I’m a fairly healthy woman in my early forties but I’ve struggled with asthma and allergies (thanks to my daughter’s beloved cat) for years. For years and years, really. I was on a daily regimen of allergy and asthma medications that included, but was not limited to, the following: melt away, immediate relief 12-hour allergy tabs once-a-day, every single day, a morning dose of a decongestant, a daily dose of asthma-preventative medication, a preventative inhaler AND a rescue inhaler. Yet, still, I knew better than to laugh too hard or try to run too far or even to clean too many rooms on a Saturday morning. My adult-onset asthma truly ruled my life.
My youngest daughter has suffered from severe (and I don’t use the word lightly) eczema and psoriasis her entire life. She suffers from constant “itchies” that she struggles to resist scratching. The scratching then, inevitably, creates open sores that are susceptible to a plethora of staff infections. Through her eighteen years, we’ve tried it ALL – every cream sold in the drugstores (both prescription and non-prescription) and many that aren’t sold in drugstores. We’ve tried oral medications and she’s taken her fair share of steroid rounds. In our home, we don’t use scented anything. All detergent, body wash, shampoo and etc is perfume and dye-free. We do not use perfumes, air fresheners, carpet powders or anything that even remotely smells of perfume. Our strict no-perfume rules have helped but the itchy problem has remained a constant presence in our daily family life.
Now, I’ll come full circle, while I was thinking that my “oily” friends and acquaintances were a little crazy, I also refused to sell out and buy in due to our firm “no smelly things” rule. Many tried their pitch. “It’ll help your allergies,” they claimed.  “It’s so good for itchy eczema skin,” they tried to tell me. “Pish,” I thought. How can anything so smelly help my already sensitive allergies OR my daughter’s itchy skin. Smelly things exacerbate the problem, not help it. That’s just crazy talk. I continued to firmly, but politely, decline their sales pitches, offers of samples and invites to educational classes.
Fast forward a year (give or take). I’m suffering from yet ANOTHER sinus infection brought on by an allergy flair after a cleaning spree. I remember feeling miserable and thinking there just has to be a sensible solution. So, in a moment of desperation, I sold out. I messaged a friend that I knew lived a loud and proud oily life. She was more than happy to share her testimony (NOT a sales pitch) with me. Then, I bought in. I purchased a starter kit of Young Living essential oils AND the Young Living Thieves cleaning products kit.
That was five months ago. It’s been quite the educational experience. I’ve learned more than I can share in a single blog post so I’ll keep it short. Please understand that I accept that I’m now one of the crazy-oily people that goes around smelling “funny” and saying things like “Hey, there’s an oil for that.” However, I am not (and most like will NEVER be) a sales person. This is not a sales pitch. Instead, consider this a testimonial of the highlights of my oil journey so far.

·         I no longer take allergy medicine every day. I take it some days here and there, but not every day.

·         I no longer use an inhaler every day. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I did use it.

·         Our home is alllllllllmost chemical-free (which I believe is the main contributor to bullets one and two).

·         My daughter’s skin looks better than it has looked her entire life. It’s less itchy so she sleeps better and feels better during the days.

The simple truth is that I cannot pinpoint exactly what has benefited us the most; the diffusing of essential oils, the application of particular oils onto our skin or the elimination of chemicals in our home. Truth be told, I don’t really care which it is. I enjoy doing all three and I’ve seen my family benefit from the combination. For us, it’s been an excellent investment. I’m careful, mind you. I do my research. I know more about essential oils, essential oil companies and the toxins and chemicals in everyday household supplies than I ever thought I wanted to know.  My knowledge has only scratched the surface. I learn something new every single day.
I sold out. I bought in. I’m a believer.  I live an oily life. The end.

*Disclaimer*
It gets on my nerves that this is necessary in today's society, but alas...
The content presented here is NOT meant to replace professional medical diagnosis, treatment or advice. Information obtained here has not been medically or scientifically verified and should never cause you to disregard or delay seeking advice or treatment about a medical condition from a medical or healthcare provider. Use of any information from the content of this site solely at your own risk.

A Friendly Rant

Part One: Friendship

Here’s the thing, in my opinion, a person’s FB page is just that…THEIR own personal FB page. They have the freedom to choose who to be friends with, who to unfriend and when, and what to post on their own page. And so do I. I choose my FB friends much like I choose my real-life friends. Wait. As a matter of fact, for me, there is no difference. I am only FB friends with my real–life friends.  They are one in the same. If I wouldn’t stop and speak to you in the grocery store, we aren’t friends…FB or otherwise. You don’t really care about my children or grandchild and why should you? We aren’t friends. We don’t know each other. We may have met once or twice, worked together twenty years ago or have friends in common. But, we aren’t friends. 

I’m often shocked at the friend requests that I receive from random people that I hardly remember. I find myself questioning where I may have known them from. No, we aren’t friends.  I’m also baffled by people that have 500+ FB friends but never seem to be actually talking to any of them. The same five friends respond to their posts and the same 5 friends are included in their pictures. Who are the other 495+ people? Again, that’s completely their choice to be friends with people that they aren’t actually friends with. It just baffles me.

Part Two:  FB Ghosts

Why do some people have a FB page and never post or comment on their “friend’s” posts? That’s not rhetorical. I really do want to know. These silent FB page owners are creepy to me. No judgement intended. I just don’t get it. If you are a FB ghost, please feel free to explain. Surely there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Is it because you want to keep up with your friends from a distance but really have no desire to foster a relationship with them? Is it because you are too shy? Antisocial? Private? Too lazy? Is it because you want to know everyone else’s business (that they willingly post for their “friends” to see) but you don’t want anyone to know yours? Why, please explain, are you FB friends with people you don’t even like to communication with?

Part Three: Solicitation

I wish FB had a front door. You know, so people actually had to knock to come in and so I could hang one of these awesome signs on it, loud and proud!  Ya know, when I open my FB to see what’s going on in the world with my friends, I don’t want to be slammed with marketing ploys. I have been hit up to buy (and sell) Pampered Chef, Mary Kay, Isogenix, Tastefully Simple, Rodan & Fields, and various essential oil companies.  I mean, people that I haven’t seen or been in contact with for years and years have sent me these creepy FB messages about joining their amazing business venture. They most often begin with messages like, “Karla! I saw your mom/sister/dad/daughter the other day. I can’t believe how many years it’s been…” OR, my personal favorite, “I see you’ve returned to your maiden name and assume you’re divorced. I’m sorry. I’d like to help you by introducing you to my company. Here, you can make millions…” or some bull malarkey like that that is then followed by an obvious copy-and-paste sales pitch. Stop it. Seriously. Stop it.  I always resist the urge to reply, “I’m not divorced. My husband died.” That might shut them up. Or maybe not. Here’s a newsflash: I never respond to those messages or accept those friend requests. As a matter of fact, I block them so they can’t find me again. We are not friends. We never were and it is quite obvious that we never will be.
Now, I will say that there are a few of my friends, that I actually keep up with, that use their own FB page to post solicitations for their multi- or mid-level marketing company.
Which, in my opinion, is perfectly acceptable, so long as they don’t harass me. Referring back to Part One. Your page is your page. Solicit away. Maybe I’ll contact you to buy or be educated. Maybe I won’t. Don’t bother me. I won’t bother you. Confession: I’m a Young Living member. I love my oily, (almost) chemical-free life. I love my DIY hair products, cleaning products and bath products. I may post about my love for my oily life but I never solicit using my FB page and I never, ever harass. (Don’t bother waiting for it, there will be no sales pitch in the next paragraph). I signed up to be a member of YLEO’s through a friend. She lives the oiliest life of anyone I’ve ever known. If you meet her, she’ll give testimony and witness but she’s never tried to push me or give me a sales pitch. There is a difference.  She has never called me during the day while I’m at work or in the evening when I’m being a mom to talk to me about “building my business.”  She has never sent me obnoxious, annoying messages or sales pitches via FB messenger.  She doesn’t use her FB page to beg for business and she doesn’t flood her page with nothing but oily this and oily that. She has never bugged me to host a party or teach a class. Fact is, if I want to buy something, I’ll look for a marketing-type FB page, or, Hell, I’ll just go over to Amazon.

Remember, people, friendship is defined as a relationship that involves communication, trust and support. I suppose Webster needs to define Facebook Friendship.  Clearly the two are very different.

Fix your Child's Hair!

This post comes with a warning. 

Caution: Please watch your toes.  They may get stepped on.  Read at your own risk. 

Selfish, self-centered parents…I can’t stand ‘em. We all know them and most of us simply ignore their shenanigans.  It’s accepted and almost encouraged in our society.  I’m not a vain person, per se, but I am a firm believer in appropriate, acceptable public appearances. Come on ladies, how can you justify getting your nails done while your kid is wearing tired, pill-balled hand-me-downs?  Parents that do not take the time or make the effort to teach their child to take pride in their appearance are just…selfish!  Listen, I’m all about living on a budget and stretching pennies. But, seriously.  Worn out, soiled clothing weighs heavy on young shoulders.  Beauty does come from within but it shows without. When these poorly dressed children feel less than worthy and less than attractive, they show a lack of desire to be clean.  They have dirty feet, dirty fingernails and frizzy, matted hair.  Can’t you teach your child to grasp the importance of taking pride in his/her appearance?  It drives me absolutely insane to see parents with their name brand jeans, fancy tennis shoes and recent dye job when their kids don’t even look like they’ve recently bathed.  Presentation and cleanliness are signs, in our society, of self-confidence and self-respect.  Who wouldn’t want their child to have a strong sense of self-worth?  Many people, I’m afraid. Children can be mean; just plain mean.  They do not want to be friends with someone that smells of days old sweat.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that hasn’t taken a shower in four days.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that looks like squirrels have been mating in their hair.  It isn’t skin deep.  It’s that even at a young age, they know.  These children, they know that the kid that looks “thrown away” is an easy target.  They sense the target’s fear and lack of confidence.  It’s a cruel world but it’s the world that we brought our kids into.  It’s the world that they have to live and learn to thrive in. Don’t you want them to thrive?  Children that are ridiculed and bullied run a strong risk of “failure to socially thrive.”  As a parent, you’re going to have to accept that you are the root of that failure.  It is your responsibility to teach your child to have just the right amount of self-confidence.  It is your responsibility to avoid over-inflating your child’s sense of self-worth without under-inflating it.  It’s a delicate balance and it is your responsibility to find it. You, mom, should feel ashamed to send your daughter to summer camp without even brushing her hair.  You, dad, should feel ashamed that your son smells like a donkey on a hot day. Do your job. Wash their clothes (& shoes). And, for goodness sake, fix your child’s hair!

The Phoenix on My Back

When I was twenty-one, I bought into the whole “it’s cool to be tattooed” theory.  I made the trip to Georgia, where tattoos were legal.  I’d taken with me a drawing of a mother and baby elephant.  After all, the elephant was my favorite animal. Once inside the tattoo parlor, I decided I’d just get one of the elephants and come back later for the other. Once I was on the artist’s table, I’d decided that the one elephant would be the baby one annnnnnd it needed to be much smaller than I’d originally planned.  I drove out of Georgia and back to South Carolina with a baby elephant, about the size of a half dollar, that much resembled an anteater, on my hip.  I didn’t exactly regret the tattoo, I just didn’t connect with it.  It was JUST a tattoo;  a right of passage, if you will.  And there that baby elephant stayed, alone for fifteen years. During my marital separation, I came across a quote in some random store about a phoenix rising from the ashes. Hmmm.  The obsession began.  I began researching phoenix quotes which lead to researching phoenix tattoos.  I never really considered getting a second tattoo before this time of my life.  After all, I knew I needed to rise from the ashes.  I was still smoldering, however, and not nearly ready to rise again. I moved through the stages of grief as my husband and I moved through the separation and towards a divorce.  Once the divorce was final, the fire settled into ashes and it was time.  I knew it.  I’d found the perfect phoenix.  She isn’t tribal.  She doesn’t look “real.”  Phoenixes aren’t real, so how can they look real? She’s a simplified, stylized, mystical, abstract phoenix. The life that I had lived had gone up in flames and, slowly, I rose from the ashes, anew.  I am a phoenix. I wanted a tattoo that told my story. This time around I did things very differently.  I asked around. I got references.  I viewed samples of their work.  I chose an artist and I made an appointment. He took the pictures I had printed and edited and asked him to see what he could do with them.  He disappeared to his drawing room and returned with a masterpiece, in my opinion.  She, the phoenix, was perfect.  She was the perfect size, about 12 inches, head to plume with a 4 inch wing span.  She was flying up, looking up, coming out of the ashes.  She was the perfect shades of blues and purples.  The symbolism was right on target. I felt a spark.  I didn’t expect to ever feel giddy love again…but here it was.  No doubt, this was love.  I loved her, instantly.  I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, tattoo that permanently on my back.” It took almost 4 hours in the artist’s chair for her to be transferred from a flat phoenix on paper to a life-like image that moved in sync with me. It wasn’t difficult to keep my mind off the pain of the procedure.  I contemplated the past fifteen years. I ran through the memories in my mind… year by year, the good times, the bad times, the death of the marriage, the new life that was beginning.  When she was complete, I beamed with pride.  I loved her.  I love her still.  She’s my war wound and, often, my inspiration to keep trudging through.  It’s been five years.  Sometimes, I forget there is a phoenix on my back.  Then, I’ll catch a glimpse of her.  I still admire her, the artwork and the meaning behind her creation.  She’s still perfect. Perfect for me.  Her wings tattooed on my back helped me spread my own.  Together we soar.

Just a Hole Punch

Throughout my accounts of parenting, it may often appear that I think I know exactly what I’m doing.  That’s a façade.  I don’t.  I’m no fool, though.  I prefer to share the stories of success.  That’s human nature…a parent’s nature, isn’t it? Today’s parenting blog is about the choosing of battles.  It’s probably the foundation that I built my parenting strategies on.  I…choose….my….battles.  I have for years.  I fight the most important ones and I let the other “fights” go. After all, I’ve raised (and am still raising) two sassy, strong-willed girls.  I often wonder where they get that from (hmph). Make up, for example, is not worthy of battling. When my eldest daughter was thirteen she decided she wanted to wear eye shadow.  I mean she wanted to reeeeeally wear it.  We shopped, she picked out and I purchased eye shadow.  She later came out ready to conquer the world with purple, several shades of purple, eye shadow from her eye lashes up to her eye brows.  She looked like she was having an allergic reaction to blackberries. I didn’t say a word.  Not a word.  A few years later, she came across a picture that had captured her purple shadow days.  She looked over at me, aghast.  “Mom,” she whined, “WHY would you let me go out of the house like that?”  I just giggled.  Lesson learned, phase passed, giggle earned. So, recently, when my youngest daughter wanted to pierce her conch (look it up, I had to), I weighed the effects, the good consequences, the bad consequences and all of the reasons I wanted to say no. What if she regretted it?  What if it hurt like Hell?  What if people judged her?  So, I tapped into my mom voice and began listing my reservations.  She listened.  For good measure. I said she’d have to pay for it, herself, with her own money.  I said she’d have to take care of it, herself.  I said she couldn’t swim the rest of the summer.  I said she may regret it later in life.  However, I did not say no.  She listened to my reservations, she contemplated (as much as a seventeen year old contemplates) and she stood convicted.  I mean, who is surprised?  She IS my daughter.  She wanted the piercing. Standing before me was my sweet baby girl; the baby that I couldn’t watch get shots when she was an infant or a toddler or even a ten year old.  And she wanted me to not only sign for her to get a hole punched in her ear, she wanted me to go along.  She’s a straight A student, I told myself.  She doesn’t sneak out, or do drugs with her friends and she isn’t pregnant. Why can’t she get a hole punched in her conch.  Well, I decided, she can.  Silently, I freaked out at the prospect of some stranger punching a hole in my daughter’s ear.  I cleaned house like a crazy woman (it’s what I do), I took too long getting ready (hahaha, to go to a piercing ‘salon’), I dug out an old bottle of Xanax and off we went.  We arrived at the ‘salon’ and I was, first, shocked and second, ashamed.  I was ashamed because I realized I’d had a stereotypical expectation of what a piercing salon and what piercist (Is that a word?  You get the picture.) would/should look like. Shame on me. The place was appropriately named Immaculate.  It was, in fact, immaculate.  The glass jewelry cases were immaculate.  The floor was immaculate.  The couch in the waiting area was leather and was, also, immaculate.  I had to show my driver’s license, her birth certificate and a copy of my divorce decree verifying that I am, in fact, her custodial parent. The receptionist was knowledgeable and thorough. The piercist (I like the word, even if I made it up) was professional.  The tools were sterile, opened in front of us. The room was more sterile than many doctor’s offices I’ve been in.  The piercist explained each step.  He was gentle and the piercing was completed without a hiccup.  My daughter, my beautiful baby girl, stood in front of the mirror grinning from ear to ear.  “I’m in love,” she declared.  And she was.  “So am I,” I thought, “I have been since the day I met you. You’re beautiful to me, even with a hole punched in your ear.”  I couldn’t say that out loud, of course, because I was concentrating on NOT fainting. Battle not chosen. No regrets.