September 22, 2020 - The Right Earrings Are Going to Tie This All Together

On a multi-day raft trip one summer, I was intrigued to see that the other adult woman in the group had brought with her a small tackle box with assorted pairs of earrings. Each morning, she’d sit down with her coffee and carefully choose the pair that went with her outfit or her mood. There was nothing wrong with this, and it was pretty entertaining, but it was also awfully …civilized? …fashion-conscious? …at least unusual, for a raft trip.

So finally I asked if there was a story,  and she said,  “Oh, my mom raised me with three rules of ladylike comportment:  Do not talk to strange men; Do not go into a bar during the day, or alone; Do not pierce your ears.  And I turned 50 this year and I did all three – ON MY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY! But I’m behind, so I buy earrings all the time, and wear a different pair every day.”

I loved this story. I totally understood her late-life rebellion, even though, as a grown woman, I was still abiding by my own mother’s “we don’t do that” on pierced ears. It wasn’t a prohibition, so much as a family tradition. No woman on the maternal side, as far back as we could fathom, had pierced ears. I don’t know why not.

(When the Red Cross started taking those little blood type samples from ear lobes instead of fingers, a nurse cooed over my untouched ear lobes, and told me that only 3% of adult American women have unpierced ears. I had also read that only 3% of American households had no TV, and since I fell into both categories, I was mildly proud, figuring that perhaps these habits made me “unusual,” possibly even “interesting.” A girl can dream.)

Then came the year I was in a cast for months (I was well past 50), and got a clot inside the cast, and had to take blood thinners, and among the many prohibitions, they said I could not get a tattoo (okay!) or pierce my ears (exCUSE me?). I decided then and there that I would pierce my ears after all, Do Not Tell ME What to Do, and as soon as the cast came off and the clot went away, I Pierced Those Ears and began buying earrings, just like my rafting friend.

But now, with stupid COVID-19, I can’t wear the nice earrings because they pop right off when I take off the mask, even the ones with decent backs.  I’m wearing my RBG earings today, even though they are uncomfortable, because grieving should hurt a bit. But the question is, will we be wearing masks forever, and will I never wear my good earrings again?

That’s not really the question, I know. The question is, how many more people have to get sick, and how many will die, and how many will grieve, and will we lose health care coverage, and our rights, and The Whole Shebang? We just passed 200,000 official COVID-19 deaths in the US, a number that our President said would show he had done a good job, if we stopped there. We aren’t stopping there.

The despair about my earrings is just one version of the many conversations going on right now amongst the all-but-3% of liberal women who have tumbled – Just Briefly, Hang On, We Are Coming Right Back – into the Pit of Despair in the wake of RBG’s passing. (One dear friend has hopped straight over  Despair into Giddy Nihilism, but that’s actually okay, in her case. I give her a pass.)

When I started this blog, I thought it would be about unexpected knock-on effects of COVID-19, stuff like how with all the stores closed, my friendly UPS delivery lady had nowhere to stop and pee while she was on her route, so I invited her to pee in my back yard if she had to, because I was afraid to let her into my house. I can, if I try, turn the whole earring despair thing into a riff on Imperative #4, supporting my local economy, because I buy earrings from local artisans who I hope have switched to bejeweling hair clips, because the earring and mask combo is going to be problematic for a while. I could buy more earrings and just lose them, I suppose, but as soon as I take my RBGs off, I’m going back to the pair I got when I first got my ears pierced, the little gold posts that actually LOCK INTO PLACE. It was strange to be a grown woman wearing these things, which are usually sported by one-year-old Latina sweet-cheek youngsters. But they do not fall out.

I am mindful that this is just a symptom, a displacement of existential sadness. I am mindful that I sound like Bertie Wooster having an uncharacteristic Deep Thought, and that if Jeeves were here, he would work his magic:

Bertie: There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself “Do trousers matter?”

Jeeves: The mood will pass, sir.