Today in my Shakespeare class we watched a film version of As You Like It set in Japan. Okay, cool, way to be creative and not use traditional paradigms of Elizabethan theatre. Honestly folks, don’t necessarily waste your time on the movie (unless you just really really like Shakespeare and can look past the overabundance of crap in the film). My mind merely used it as a starting point for revelations pertaining to things far from the Forest of Arden.
When you have comedic lines that aren’t funny, you have lameness. I often fail when trying to throw in bad jokes. I take that back. They’re not bad, I am just much more easily amused than the average human. (Exhibit #1: my addiction to WifeSwap or Sookie Stackhouse novels. Not to knock either forms of entertainment . . . however, it’s just crappy fluff I can’t seem to look away from.) I could never be the Fool of a play, even a non-funny one. I’m not a wit. It’s okay. I’ll fall back on my guns. They are obviously made of steel, especially with all the pear puffs I eat over here.
The other thing my mind suddenly realized, pay attention please because this is the real enlightening note of the day, is that I don’t remember the pain of getting my ears pierced. I got my first hole when I was about 4, I remember it was at Merle Norman, that we went the day before and to pick out the studs (gold with dark ruby gems), and that my mom told them to have two girls do it simultaneously - counting to 3, but pulling the trigger on 2 so I wouldn’t be anticipating it. Don’t remember it hurting. I got my second hole (after much pleading) at Claire’s in a mall in Mississippi over Thanksgiving break. I was in 8th grade. This time, I picked the much more trendy silver flowers with light blue stones in the middle just minutes to the big shoot. One girl dotted my ears, and then she proceeded to pierce the right and left. I remember a pop, maybe a pinch, but no pain. Not that I’m amazed I survived and can no longer recount the inhuman pain of getting your ears pierced with a lovely modern gun (none of the heated needle, ice, and apple crap), I just though it was interesting - especially during our class film - to note which details of experience get blurred by time and which stay sharp. Ain’t it funny that I can remember the exact outfit I wore that day in 8th grade (bright green pants from H&M that I had gotten in NYC, a studded belt from HotTopic - yeah, I was in that phase, and a white t-shirt. . . my hair was bobbed, kind of like it is now) but not the little bit of pain I felt.
Maybe time really does “heal all wounds,” or maybe my mind just suppresses them so they can bubble to the surface at untimely moments, uprooting my future life and career. Call my a silly optimist, but I’ll put my faith in the first rather than the later.
Cheer & Love,
P.S. Here's a prime photo for the film we watched. You know what to avoid now.