Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: adulthood, dermatology, health, humor, life, lifestyle, skin cancer, summer, travel
For the first time in my life, I finally did something smart for my skin. After having to use chemo cream this winter and getting a melanoma site cut out of my shoulder at the same time, it has become clear that all of the fun I had in my younger years is coming back to bite me. Besides looking like a dried-up apple if I’m not chugging water and putting various toners, serums and moisturizers on my face, now I’m having to lop bits off. Let me tell you, melanoma bits are deep; that means layers of stitches and limited movement afterward. Plus, the scary factor.
After much convincing from Daughters 1 and 2, I finally decided to get a spray tan before going on our spring trip. I was going to trick my vanity into thinking I was already tan, so I would not feel compelled to roast in the sun like a delicious Costco rotisserie chicken.
It worked! For once I stayed in the shade, slathered on 50+ sunscreen and didn’t feel like a raw piece of chicken just out of the package.
Now, before you all jump on me and talk about chemicals and how they are just as bad as getting actual sun, recognize that I’m treating the immediate problem. As I always have, I’ll worry about the chemicals later.
A lot of my friends haven’t done a spray tan, either, and they had A LOT of questions. So, here’s how it went with all the glorious, undignified details:
I chose a local place for the first time, recommended by a lot of people, called NudeFX. Sounds like a strip club, but it was elegant and discreet. Before my appointment they talked with me by phone about how it would go and directed me to their website for how to prepare (LOTS of exfoliating and moisturizing). The day of the appointment we discussed an option that was $10 more for a clear type of spray for “mature skin” (i.e., lots of brown and white age spots). I opted for that since in addition to not accentuating the brown spots, it also is supposed to keep you from being orange.
When we got to the small room where this great event was to take place, there was a mat to stand on, a large fan thing that looked like a giant speaker that sucked the extra spray from the room, and a small table with disposable thongs, pasties and a hair cap. The thongs and pasties were optional – the hair cap is necessary. You can also just wear your underwear or a bathing suit or nothing at all. This being my first time, I opted for the thong and the pasties.
Yep – naked but for a fake thong, pasties and a haircap. I was a delight to the eyes, like someone’s OnlyFans vision of lunch lady porn.
Helpful Hint: For those of us who are hormonally challenged and wear a hormone patch near the groin, remember to take it off unless you’re fine with a perfect, stark white moon in orbit around your thong strap mark.
Helpful Hint: Don’t bother with the pasties. Hubby saw the result (ridiculously pale nipples on tan skin looks like a reversed fried egg) and busted out laughing.
Once you’re undressed, the technician comes in and begins to spray. There’s a lot of “lift that arm to here” and “turn this way” and so on as she basically holds what looks like a combination of paint sprayer and hair dryer. As she goes, she also takes a very soft makeup brush and ensures the spray is even, especially around your feet and hands to prevent those white gaps that make tanning look fake and cheesy.
Helpful Hint: Just check your dignity at the door – I am sure they have seen it ALL. And don’t get fooled by the cool pictures they have of great tans people have achieved. They’re all hot twenty-somethings. I happen to know that a lot of people get tan that don’t look like that, so RELAX. They don’t care at all, and I never felt a hint of judgment.
When you get home after the tan, you’re supposed to wear loose, flowy clothes to prevent rubs until the tan sets – apparently going commando is best. Knowing Hubby was going to be home, I did not take the commando option – I just wore the loose flowy clothes for 5 hours. For the first couple of hours nothing happened – I couldn’t even tell I’d done anything. But eventually it started to work, and it was subtle. After the 5 hours I rinsed off (no soap or shampoo allowed yet).
Helpful Hint: If you’re like me and can’t sit still, rack up some small in-house projects that need to be done, like those piles of laundry, cleaning out your fridge or whatever. You won’t want to go in public or get in your car.
The tan keeps developing overnight. By 8:00pm I started to freak out – I was looking like my usual summer tan, which was exactly what I was going for, but I didn’t know when it would stop.
And then I noticed the smell.
We were sitting on the couch watching TV when all of the sudden all I could smell was Fritos…or Cheetos. At first, I thought it was the dogs – they can get yeasty smelling in the winter. Dog paws are one of my favorite smells, which, according to the internet, is a yeast issue. Yeasty dog paws smell like Fritos. So, I grabbed Holly’s paw and sniffed – it wasn’t any more Frito-smelling than usual. And then, I zeroed in on where the smell was coming from.
It was me. I smelled like dog paws.
I made Hubby sniff my arm, which sparked a short debate on whether it was Fritos or Cheetos. Then I panic-called Daughter #1 who had spearheaded this project.
“Oh yeah, that’ll last about a day or two,” was her response. “It’ll mostly go away after you shower with soap and shampoo.”
I feel like that should have been communicated in advance.
The next morning, I was a little darker, but not a hint of orange, and the 3:00am pre-travel shower felt amazing. However, on the plane I was sandwiched between Hubby and some poor man who probably thought I’d had nothing but Fritos for the last six meals. I could smell it wafting up as I got warmer in the cramped middle seat.
So….was it worth it? ABSOLUTELY.
Bottom line, the tan lasted almost all week, with minimal streaking or fading. More importantly, I did manage to trick my vanity. I never felt like I needed to bake in the sun – I got plenty just hanging out (mostly in the shade), wearing hats and gobs of sunscreen.
I may not be able to tell my dermatologist to suck it (I still have 30+ years of damage to deal with), but I’m definitely going to put a damper on her vacation fund from now on.
Filed under: Food/Drink, mental health, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: humor, Mexico, resort, self-care, spa, travel, vacation
Sitting here looking at the ice that is taking its sweet, sweet time melting (I’m so freaking over it), I started daydreaming about our pre-ice storm trip to Mexico…one we had been looking forward to for months so we could relax after a difficult and busy year. The resort was one of those all-inclusive resorts for couples, and we were ready for some down time.
You should know that when we first talked about this place, I told Hubby that if there was a cheesey, Las Vegas-style heart-shaped tub anywhere I was leaving. Rest assured, this was not Love Island. It was actually very classy and the service was excellent.
In fact, the resort guests in early January were mostly folks older than us and a few obvious honeymooners. God bless ’em – I’m sure they didn’t anticipate hanging out by the pool near Gerald, a former EVP of something nobody cares about and who is on his third wife. Gerald talks loudly into his phone on speaker mode. All afternoon, as Gerald and his wife mold themselves into their chairs, the staff dutifully bring a steady supply of gin and tonics for him, tequila and sodas for her. The talking gets louder as the gin and tonics kick in, but it was hard to tell how his wife felt about it because she’d had so much surgery or Botox nothing moved.
But I digress.
While we were there, we scheduled a couples massage for 4:00pm one afternoon. Of course, that was the day we met some fun people from Canada who were well-versed in the various rums and tequilas on offer at the swim-up bar. At 3:45, we remembered the massage, stopped at the restroom and sprinted to the spa.
The receptionist did a great job of hiding her disgust at what I am sure was a miasma of liquor coming off of us in waves. She escorted us into the changing rooms, and, after several tries, I got my wet bathing suit off, my feet into the slippers and the fluffy towel wrap thing on right side out. Eventually I met Hubby in the room for a two-part hour of relaxation: half back and neck massage, half facial.
It was great…until I had to pee half-way through.
We had just started the facial and I was doing the horizontal version of the pee-pee dance, when I finally gave in and told the very kind lady that I HAD to go. She laughed and removed whatever was covering my eyes, then helped me sit up and wrap myself in the towel. She marched me down a very long, peaceful hallway filled with light, palm trees, rocks and running water, all of which made the need even more urgent. I passed a couple of people but was on a mission, so just kept motoring for the bathroom.
As I entered the bathroom, I made a horrible mistake – I looked in the mirror.
Mrs. Doubtfire looked back at me. My face was covered in thick, white cream and my hair was sticking up like a crown all around my face.
I started laughing and barely made it into the stall.
It’s really hard to pee when you’re laughing.
When I finally came out, I avoided the mirror and high-tailed it back through the serene hallway and those few people walking silently about. This time I was aware of a few stares and possibly some disapproving glances.
In a few minutes I settled down and enjoyed the last of the session. But I did learn a few things that day:
- Don’t be Gerald (or his wife). People will silently hate you just a little bit.
- Don’t drink before or after a massage – the list of reasons why is as long as long as the hallway I had to traverse looking like a melted marshmallow.
- If you are wrapped in a robe and slippers and covered in face cream, do not—under any circumstances—look in a mirror unless you are emotionally prepared to meet your new identity as “Haunted Spa Ghost.”
- Serenity is fragile. It can be destroyed instantly by the sound of your own laughter echoing off stone walls while strangers silently judge your life choices.
- No matter how fancy the resort, how calming the music, or how skilled the masseuse… I will always find a way to turn relaxation into a minor public spectacle.
So, a belated happy New Year my friends, and make sure you schedule some time for self-care!
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: anxiety, apocalypse, comedy, humor, plague, survivor, UFOs
These days there is a lot of fear mongering, talk of anarchy and threats of various apocalypse scenarios. If you believe the social media “preppers,” the apocalypse is coming in the form of World War Three, a plague, or UFOs.
Or maybe the world is eventually going to be underwater.
Well, if any of those scenarios are on the horizon, I can rest easy because I’m not a survivor. Nor do I want to be.
I’ve seen enough Thunderdome movies to know that I wouldn’t make it past the first week.
Here are things I do NOT bring to the table:
Weapons or the skills to use them. I’m pretty sure my throwing axes will only protect me if my attacker is 10 feet away and standing still.
Medical knowledge or herb lore. Despite the fact that my family jokingly calls me “Dr. Libby,” I’m really just a fast Googler. As for the herb lore, if it’s a nuclear attack, you can’t eat what would be left. If we’re floating around an endless ocean because of climate change, seaweed will only do you so much good. That’s pretty much the extent of my ocean flora knowledge.
Mechanical ability. I can barely work a screwdriver, and IKEA instructions make me break out in hives. So no, I won’t be the person who’s fixing machines, jumping car batteries or siphoning gas to save the day.
Procreation. My body is no longer equipped to produce offspring, much less offspring that would adapt to a post-apocalyptic new world. I’m pretty much a post-apocalyptic recessive gene.
Here’s what I DO bring to the apocalypse:
Humor. If you can’t laugh at the situation, you’ll cry. So maybe I can keep some people from falling apart by making snarky observations. I’ll eventually become a court jester.
Documentation. I can write down what happened and how people survived. I’m told I’m good with dialogue when I write fiction. I will explain the weird lines on our (underwater) roads and strange phrases future archeologists uncover, like “Let’s Go Brandon” and “what’s your Roman Empire.”
Medical Assistant (certain conditions only). When it comes to radiation poisoning, I’m your girl. People throwing up doesn’t bother me at all. But, if there’s an attack with a respiratory component, I’m out. Snot makes me dry heave.
Medicinal Alcohol. My house could be a temporary source of medicinal antiseptic and anesthesia, given our current supply of bourbon. Until those supplies run out, we can all figure out how to make moonshine from ash, instead of actual crops.
Realistically, by the time the apocalypse happens, us non-survivors will probably already be assigned red Star Trek security shirts so we’ll be easy to identify. That way, others won’t waste time trying to save us when they could be building a desalinization machine out of seashells.
So if you’re a McGyver, a Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs, or someone who knows how to operate multiple vehicles, more power to you. You go all Thunderdome out there and keep the human race going. I’ll see you on the other side, wearing my shiny red sweater.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: 2025, adulthood, anxiety, depression, goals, humor, life, mental health, new year, personal growth, positive, resolutions
Usually at this time of year I post something about New Year resolutions and re-post a previous blog about body image. And yes, one of my resolutions is to get back to writing this blog. (I’ll still repost the body image blog, because I think it’s valid.) But, this year I really want to remind everybody to take a second and look back over the last few months, or year, or even five years, and see how far you’ve come. For some of you, that may mean taking off your readers for a few minutes to see farther back than yesterday. I’ll wait while you tap the top of your head, trying to remember if you actually have them on or not.
You do, because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to read this.
Ready? Ok.
Anyway…New Year resolutions are all about becoming a better person, or maybe just being less of a dick. Side note – one of my favorite gifts this year is this dish towel:
So that’s where my expectations are for people these days.
However, I think that before you make unrealistic resolutions for 2025, you should take a look at the positive changes that have happened in your life over the last year. Sometimes they are huge, like getting a new job, losing a bunch of weight or cutting someone toxic out of your life. Sometimes they may be as small as learning a new skill at work, like the fact that not every email deserves a response, or making it through an entire movie without also playing a game on your phone or scrolling through social media.
And, sometimes things that seem small are in fact HUGE – like going through a dark time and just plodding your way through, one day after another, until things get just a little bit better.
Whatever you’ve accomplished, take a second to acknowledge that you have had some triumphs. If it’s not 9:00am, maybe even have a glass of champagne to celebrate – unless you’re doing the Dry January thing (which I am). In that case you can always choose to substitute alcohol with a giant box of Cheese-Itz or other favorite snack food (which I do on the regular now). I mean Jesus, give yourself SOME kind of reward. You say you’re not or can’t afford to be food/drink motivated? Then reward yourself with something you like to do. If I’m not eating Rice Krispy treats or cheese in any form, my reward is to read fairy smut.
Don’t judge.
Some of you like biographies about celebrities with drug and sex addictions, real-life thrillers with some truly screwed up characters, and self-help books that are just cringey. I was in the airport for a significant amount of time this weekend and I saw what y’all are reading. At least fairies are fake.
So before you get that planner you’ll never fill out, join that gym you’ll quit in two months or start on ruin your knees by running 3 miles a day when you’ve been a couch potato for the last year, remember that you accomplished some stuff this year. It’s not anybody else’s business what that was – they don’t know your experiences, struggles or inner goals that you set for yourself. Most likely they wouldn’t understand or appreciate it. But you do – so go get that cheese or champagne or book that you don’t want anyone to know that you read over and over again (I see you, ACOTAR people). You deserve a little celebration as well as a little improvement.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: adulthood, aging, Boomers, GenX, mental health, Middle-Age, time management
I was recently talking to a friend and asked what he was reading. He said 4,000 Weeks – Time Management For Mortals. Apparently, it’s a book about the challenge of how best to use our four thousand weeks, the average length of a human life.
So I started thinking – how do I want to spend my remaining weeks? I immediately had visions of world travel, novels and stories I want to write, things I want to buy (and sell). I’m in my 50’s, so my weeks are dwindling. If I’m lucky I’ve probably got somewhere in the neighborhood of 1300 weeks where most of the big ideas would still be options.
I will still be working for the next 350 weeks or so, assuming all goes well. There are very few weeks in those 500 for world travel and other big bucket list items.
The pressure is on.
But I would caution that thinking of time in that way could have some unforeseen repercussions:
Creating bucket list goals that may not be attainable or that takes away from current “quality” time being spent in other ways.
Minimizing the value of spending time doing regular-life things. Doing chores allows you to appreciate the result of those chores. There is satisfaction in accomplishing little goals as well as huge life-changing ones.
Minimizing the value of being part of someone else’s quality time. If we all have limited weeks, it may be hard to appreciate the value of being part of someone else’s bucket list item or lifetime goal. Walking the dog may not always be the grandiose or high-quality way we’d like to spend our time, but to the dog it means everything.
Instilling unnecessary regrets for “wasting” time in the past. Regrets over the fact that you spent an entire weekend watching Beavis and Butt-Head are wasted thoughts. Those hours at the very least provide a roadmap for how you might manage your time differently moving forward.
But if you still have regrets, think about it this way: what if you did spend that time trekking to New Zealand or climbing mountains or whatever you think is the high-quality way you should have been spending that time? You don’t know if it would have been as amazing as you think it would, or what you might have missed in the interim, or even if the things you define as quality time now would be the same as what was important or vital at that time in your life.
Forgetting to be grateful for what you have in your day-to-day life. Instead of begrudging the fact that you have to spend half your Saturday going to the dump, picking up laundry and grocery shopping, consider the fact that there are many, many people who would love to be able to do those things, if only they had a car, or the funds, or didn’t have a disability or other circumstance preventing them from doing so. Instead, take a second and appreciate that you are able to do those things at all.
It’s always a good thing to stop and check your roadmap. Make sure you’re still heading in the direction you want to go and that you’re on track to hit your goals before you run out of gas.
Just don’t forget to look out the window.
And for God’s sake stop spending your time reading books about how to spend your time. Read something you truly enjoy.
Subourbon Mom 