Millennial Midriff

I was going through my jewelry box with my daughter, looking through all my earrings with her, when she found my old belly button ring.

I got my belly button pierced when I was 17. I was underage, so I had to convince my mom to sign off on it because I was determined to have it done before going to the beach after my high school graduation. I still remember the look of discomfort on her face when she met me at the tattoo and piercing parlor. I’m fairly certain she signed the papers and left. She didn’t even stay to watch as I mangled my belly button for a little early 2000s bling.

25 years later, there I was, digging through my jewelry box, and my 5 year old daughter uncovered it like a tiny artifact from another era of my life.

This particular belly button ring stayed in until I was pregnant with her. That’s when I finally took it out. I haven’t worn it in six years and assumed the hole had long since closed. As I showed her how it used to go in—mostly as a demonstration—I realized it hadn’t fully closed after all. I gently pushed it through.

And just like that, at 42, I have a belly button ring again.

The truly ironic part came a moment later. As I lifted my shirt to admire it, I realized that if I were to expose my midriff and belly ring at this juncture of my life, you’d also see the estrogen patch on my lower abdomen.

On the same stretch of skin lives a relic of 2001 and the medical marker of 2026.

A tiny, glittering symbol of youth sitting inches away from the adhesive proof of middle age.

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. The girl with her chunky highlights and tanned skin who desperately wanted a belly ring before beach week still lives here. She just shares real estate with a woman who needs a hormone patch to get through the day.