More than two weeks ago, I finally did what I should have done 31 years earlier: got my ears pierced. But instead of going home, showing the Man, and suggesting that every kiss begins with diamond earrings for Christmas, I decided to play a game: I would keep quiet and see how long it took him to discover the holes punched in my earlobes.
Hours passed. Nothing. Days passed. Nothing. Weeks passed. Nothing. Even a long holiday weekend full of nothing to do but stare at me brought, you guessed it: Still. Freaking. Nothing.
Then FINALLY, it happened. At long last, I got busted; at 1 a.m. this morning, the Man noticed the piercings. Make that discovered them, because how can you notice something in the dark?
We were getting ready to go to sleep. He put his hand on my head–specifically, on my ear. Him: “Hey, why are you wearing earrings in bed?”
Me: . . .
Him: “Oh my gosh, wait, did you–when did you get your ears pierced?”
Me: “Um, like, 2 or 3 weeks ago.”
Me: “Are you serious that you never noticed them all this time?”
Him: “Well, when a man looks at his wife he isn’t exactly checking out her ears.”
Score one for the Man.
Secretly, I’m relieved. I kept worrying that he already knew about them and was playing me to see who would crack first, and at that rate we could go on for years, and then how would I ever guilt him into buying me new earrings? As it is, a new avenue of personal jewelry has just opened up, and the Christmas sales are on, and–best of all–the Man probably feels a tiny bit guilty.
In case he asks, I prefer diamonds.