Today, while on my lunch break from work, I got into my car and drove to a tattoo parlor. I laid down forty bucks, bared my stomach to a man with so many piercings I wondered how long it would take him to get through airport security (and who was also quite possibly extremely stoned), and got my belly-button re-pierced.

I first got it pierced over ten years ago, when I was at the tender young age of 17. I kept it in all through the years, until I got pregnant. I planned to keep it in the entire time, but the ultrasound tech worried it would scratch up the wand thingy during my ultrasound, and at the time I was all, “Fine. Whatever. Just tell me the sex of my precious child!”, so I took it out.

When I tried to put it back in after I had my son, I found it had closed. At the time, I shrugged and didn’t care because, really? Did I really want to display a piece of jewelry amidst post-partum blobby skin? Not to mention my belly-button looks sort of collapsed-in and weird now.

Fast forward to a year later, when I’ve finally (FINALLY) lost the baby weight and gotten into shape. With my beach vacation looming next week, I decided to take one last grasp at my youth and do something ridiculous, stupid and totally vain.

And I love it.

I will never be the same I was before I had my son–physicially, mentally, emotionally. Nor do I want to be. But damn it, when I’m up with him all night due to razor-sharp molars coming in, wiping baby puke off my formerly nice work suit and cleaning off the vaseline he’s smeared all over the bedroom wall, at least my belly button will look cute.

Bring on the margaritas and the bathing suit!

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