As you may or may not know, because you’re awesome enough or not to be following me on Instagram, my newest and greatest passion is face and body painting.

It’s exactly what my creative side needed in life: a way to do art and be creative and never make a single penny on it. Like, ever. I’ll blog about that need of mine another time, just know that it’s such a beautiful thing to me… working for hours to complete a work of art that minutes later will disappear from the face of the Earth, except in digital memory. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to sell.

And while I’d say, “hey, isn’t it awesome to have a hobby that involves naked women?” it’s not like that at all. It’s an escape. It’s a meditation. It’s incredibly poignant and liberating to have a beautiful naked person standing or sitting in front of me and for there to be nothing sexual about it at all. I wish everyone could experience it.

Anyway, that was all way too long an intro to say, “hey I’m into body painting now.”

And body painting isn’t even what this blog entry is about. This is about a moment that happened while pursuing my passion of body painting that made me know (with authority) just how old I actually am.

This happened last week. I hired a young woman named Belle to model for me so that I could practice something I had been wanting to try for a while. Painted-on clothing. This is how the final work turned out:

Not bad, for a first attempt. Especially if you cross your eyes just a tiny bit to make the polka dots look perfectly round.

Anyway, I hired Belle to come model nude for me. She answered an ad, and upon my inquiry she informed me that she was 19.



Obviously, I was going to be ├╝ber careful, and so I instructed her to bring her driver’s license so that I could verify her age.

19.

Nineteen.

I’ve never gotten to the point where I felt like 19 was that much younger than me. After all, it was only a few years ago that I was 19.

The day and time arrived that we agreed to paint, and the beautiful Belle arrived. First things first… “Show me your ID so that I don’t end up in jail for 5-7 years.”

Okay, that shouldn’t have been in quotes since I never said that aloud, but I promise you my face said it. Just can’t be too careful in this day and age.

She handed me her ID, and…

{BARF}

What the…

No.

That can’t be right.

I stood there holding her ID, shaking my head. No… No… Definitely no…

It said her date of birth was in the summer of… 1998.

{BARF}

I started doing the math, unable to reconcile the date.

Did I just hire a 12-year-old?

1998… 1998… 2017 minus 1998…

You see, I graduated high school in the spring of… 1998.

Belle was born… After I graduated high school.

{BARF}

I attempted the math anew. 19. She was 19. No, that couldn’t be right. So I did the math again. 19. Nooooooo. I got out a calculator to be sure. This was my good name I was worried about, along with all the valid ethical reasons to boot.



It wasn’t that I couldn’t believe she was 19.

Nine-fuckin’teen.

It was that I couldn’t believe someone born since I became an adult is now an adult herself.

{BARF}

I’ve had many moments of feeling older. Many, many moments. But I’ve never actually felt old until I looked at Belle’s driver’s license. Yep. That was the horrible moment when I just knew. I can’t keep pretending I’m still young because… I’m Not.

Ugh.

Thanks for listening to my mournful rant.

I’m going shopping for walkers and adult diapers this weekend if anyone wants to join me.

Dan Pearce | The Dan Pearce Blog

Oh, and friggin’ follow me on Instagram if you wanna see my body paintings. User: @danoah