I often host the cable access show Atheists Talk. New episodes are recorded on the second Thursday of each month. This evening marked my 66th episode as host. It was my tenth occasion being on the show in January, and 75th overall, if I include my times as a guest.
As the crew MacGyvered a solution to a camera issue, one of the two interviewees – and they both came on the show at their behest to discuss Camp Quest – remarked that she is nervous about the impending administrative changes in Washington. The other guest shrugged his shoulders. “Eh,” he said, trying to offer a positive lilt to the inevitable disaster, “I still have hope. Hope in humanity.”
“Not me,” I said, and they both turned to look at me. “I’m just gonna sit outside and play my fiddle while the city burns.” There was a palpable pause; I think they were waiting for a punchline or a smirk to slide across my visage, but neither came. “There was a time for hope, but it’s over now. We had a good run, and it’s over.” I’m a realist, not an optimist. The man said something to me, but the crew had initiated the countdown for the recording to begin and, besides, I had Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” earwormed in my brain, so I couldn’t really pay attention.
Isla came with me to the cable show. Jennifer is less incensed when I leave on a weeknight if I at least bring one of the kids in tow. And since one of them has Jiu Jitsu class on Thursday evenings, and another one is only two years old, there remains only one realistic option. She sat in the annex, on my laptop, watching The Secret World of Arrietty. During the drive home, she asked me if, when having one’s ears pierced, small disks of skin are punched out of the lobes, or if the flesh merely moves aside to make way for the metal studs.
Culling from my deep well of auricle accoutrements, I said, “Uh, I think the skin just moves aside.”
There was silence, so I continued, “You think about ear piercings every once in while, don’t you?”
She said she did, and then added that she wasn’t sure if she really wanted her ears pierced or if she just wanted to be like other girls she sees.
“Well,” I said as we exited the highway, “That can be a good reason to do something. There are a lot of things I do just because other people do them. But for bigger things, it’s probably good to make sure you really want to do them.”
Isla said, “It’s kind of like the only person who really wanted to get their ears pierced was the very first person who got their ears pierced.” Then she asked me again if I ever got my ears pierced. I reminded her I did not – in fact, I’m flatly opposed to any sort of bodily modification that isn’t clearly corrective. I don’t even like earrings – I think women are better-looking without them. I had braces on my teeth when I was a preteen, and I still curse my parents for that rancid decision. Circumcision must rank among the ten dumbest practices our barbaric culture approves of – there was no question Jennifer and I wouldn’t submit our sons to that ritual. And I can’t even bring myself to get a tattoo with my kids’ names, even though I’ve mildly considered it a hundred times in the last decade.
So when Isla asked if I think she should get her ears pierced, I provided her with my standard, nuanced answer, “No.”
“What age should I be?” she asked.
“I think you should be at an age where you are old enough to be sure that that’s something you really want to do, and to be able to understand all the good sides and bad sides.”
“But what age is that?” she persisted, looking for a number.
“Hm…I’m not sure. Probably at least 42,” which, I think, was a fair answer coming from someone who is 41 and a half.