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: Exercise, Food/Drink, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break | Tags: adulthood, bikini, bourbon, Exercise, gym, health, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, Running, Running Tourette's, south, southern, Spring Break, subourbonmom, summer, treadmill, Virginia, weight loss, winter
After walking around all winter grumbling about how I hate the way my stomach has started moving independently of the rest of my body, I finally realized I was actually going to have to do something about it.
I was going to have to start…dare I say it?
Exercising.
And even worse… Eating Better.
So I did what I always do when I realize Virginia winters don’t require the amount of extra insulation I’ve been building up. I tried a few things, and quickly realized my intentions do not match the reality of the situation.
Intention: I am trying to eat 5 fruits and veggies a day and limiting bread to get more good carbs and limit the bad.
Reality: My body went into a fiber-induced shock. Apparently, granola is not everybody’s friend, at least not at first.
Intention: I am limiting alcohol – and by that I mean I am only having drinks Thursday through Saturday. (Some folks asked me “why include Thursday?” Well duh…because Thursday is “Little Friday!”)
Reality: Middle Age takes care of some of that desire; I now have a whole list of drinks that make me have hot flashes, so I’m definitely weighing my choices more carefully – is it really worth having to change out of my sweat-soaked my PJs at 3:00am to have that glass of wine? Nope.
Intention: I bought a few Clean Eating and exercise magazines to give me inspiration and ideas.
Reality: They make me feel like I am being healthy without actually being healthy…until I look at the 20-year-olds in the pictures who clearly have never had children and don’t sit in an office cube all day like a veal. I also refuse to spend a lot of money on special spices and high-end oils that those Clean Eating magazines seem to demand. And, I have never once tried any of the exercises in the fitness mags – mostly because I couldn’t follow the diagrams any more than I can put together anything that says “some assembly required.”
Intention: I am regularly exercising at the office gym, mostly doing ab work and cardio to get the weight off as fast as I can.
Reality: Running on the treadmill comes with two hazards I wasn’t expecting:
1. Watching my reflection in the windows as I run makes me unbalanced – I had to grab the rails before I shot off the back of the machine like a sweaty, horizontal human waterfall;
2. I thought my new cheap headphones were mildly electrocuting me every few seconds, until I realized that in the winter treadmills acquire a lot of static electricity. So, every 3rd or 4th step I had to slap the metal rail with my hand to prevent the static zap from reaching my headphones and inner ear. I don’t know what the people walking by the gym window thought, but I’m pretty sure I looked like I had a case of Running Tourette’s.
Intention: I am going to look awesome in a bikini this summer.
Reality: I will once again spend too much money on a conservative tankini that my mother will approve of.
But in the meantime, I’m going to be burning those extra calories flailing at the metal treadmill rails – maybe those expended calories will turn into that bikini body I remember. Or maybe they’ll just let me eat that extra helping of summertime happy hour appetizers.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Travel | Tags: family, Fishing, humor, lake, mafia, Middle-Age, mobsters, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, summer, travel, trees, Virginia
Lately, I’ve been learning a lot of things about myself—some good, but most of them not flattering. For example, as I’ve gotten older, my brain-to-mouth filter has gotten, shall we say…porous? Hard to believe, I know. But one of my most recent self-discoveries had nothing to do with the new job. It had everything to do with one of our favorite American traditions—hiding the bodies.
This week, with the 4th of July coming up and the buzz around the US Soccer Team creating a surreal sports hype I was feeling nostalgic for some American traditions. What better tradition than to devote a weekend doing yard work and drinking beer? So, we went to the lake, where we have a small house and a boat, and enough chores to keep Hubby busy burning stuff for a lifetime. One of our chores was to finally sink this year’s Christmas tree in a secret fishing spot. In theory, the sunken tree will attract crappie and other fish (if you ever see fisherman randomly sitting 20 yards or so off of…nothing, you can bet there’s a sunken tree down there somewhere). Mind you, this is
a) illegal, and
b) a messy activity involving pine sap and pine needles that are impossible to get out of indoor-outdoor carpet.
It’s also harder than you’d think. First, I had to drag the tree to the dock because some people were a little concerned about spiders and lizards. Then we tied a cinder block to the tree so it would sink (the arborist version of cement shoes). Daughters 1&2 held the tree in the water in front of the boat while we idled over to the secret spot. With a flourish we let the tree go and backed the boat away.
The tree floated like a bobber.
Or a body.
Apparently, one cinder block wasn’t enough. In the meantime, the ski boats that whirl around our little piece of lake were watching.
Hubby was getting nervous…he sat on the front of the boat, feet dangling in the water as he tried to guide the carcass with a stick.
“Stop! Back up! You can’t go that fast!” All the while the body, er, tree was bobbing up and down for the whole world to see.
Eventually, we nudged the tree back to the dock and tied two more cinder blocks to it and headed back out.
“Hurry up!” Hubby said. “You know this is illegal, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but everybody does it.” Pause. “Do you want to stop?”
Hubby said, in true, fatalistic accomplice fashion, “No, they’ve seen us now. We may as well finish.”
Five minutes later, we had sunk our tree, praying it was deep enough not to get hung up in someone else’s boat prop, but also hoping the fishermen would snag it often enough with their lines that they would stop trolling along our piece of shoreline at 6:00am.
The boat was littered with evidence (it still is)—pine needles in the carpet, sap on the seats and our hands and legs, like Lady MacBeth’s blood. At least three ski boats saw our crime—hopefully we looked intimidating enough (me in my tankini and Hubby in one of his soccer dad t-shirts) to scare them into silence.
So what did I learn from my near-mobster activity?
- Do your illegal activities at night—no witnesses, and it saves on your breakfast revisiting you in the form of anxiety-induced heart burn
- Use plastic sheets to keep the evidence off of your stuff—there’s a reason they always assassinate the victims with plastic bags on the floor.
- Carcasses are more buoyant than you think
- I cannot pull off acting cool when I’m doing something “illegal”—we took treated lumber to the dumpster once and I was as nervous as if we were doing a drug deal in the middle of The Jefferson
- If the first detective asked me anything about it, I’d crack like an egg.
Happy birthday, America!
Subourbon Mom 