There’s just something about the belly button.
Ever since I first laid eyes on the naval piercing of the lifeguard at the Hummelstown Swim Club, I wanted one, too. I was 8.
Eight years later, just before my 16th birthday, my mother — bless her heart — promised I could get one if I swore off piercings, tattoos and the like for the remainder of my life.
It was March 2004 when my very conservative grandmother took me to Checkered Past in New Cumberland to have a hollow needle shoved through a tiny chunk of stomach fat.
I picked out a silver bar with a cubic zirconia jewel. I couldn’t wait. I was going to look like a Treasure Troll.
And seven years later, I still do. Most of my friends, now in their 20s, have removed the metal bars, which have since fallen out of style for people our age.
Most of the time, I forget it’s there, but I can’t — no matter how much I’ve thought about it — get myself to remove it.
It’s not some souvenir of a drunken weekend at the beach. It’s a memory with my grandma who has since passed away.
It’s a symbol of my youth, and, above all, a reason to work out.
At 23, is it juvenile to still have it? Should I take it out?