The secret to reducing crows feet...

You wake up in the morning and do the zombie shuffle to the bathroom.  The light goes on; your ill-prepared eyes close - too much light, too soon.  Your pasty mouth makes a smasking sound as you open and close it, you wonder what crawled in to die overnight.  You stick out your tongue, making sure that it isn't coated with a layer of scoopable kitty litter.  Your eyes finally focus as you lean in towards the mirror and that's when you see them.  The creases on the side of your face - the ones by your eyes - the... crow's feet.  It's not just dermatographia from the pillow case either.

The crow's feet have epic prominence this morning and you look like you've gone 10 rounds.  You poke the skin around your left eye - the puffiest eye...  It wasn't this puffy last night when you went to bed.  Did you have an allergic reaction to something?  Did one of the cats cold-cock you in your sleep?  There's no better word for it, your face looks... SMOOSHED.   poke - poke - poke...  It's as if all the skin has been pushed into a Shar Pei version of its regular self...

And that's when it hits you. Your face has been smooshed. You slept your face into its present state.  The weight of your head, as you slept on your side, has distorted your aging facial skin.

Let's face it, when a woman looks at those crow's feet on her face, its the rare bird who says: "Hey look at the aged beauty and character upon my visage!"  Age and character just doesn't seem to fly for the feminine set - it's not accepted and revered the way it is on the male form.

You've passed 40, you've tried your fair share of eye creams.  You've probably spent some cool pocket change on different varieties before you read the Internet articles telling you that once the lines are there, you're pretty much fucked.  Unless you're wealthy and can go the surgical or Botox maintenance route - those crow's feet are here to stay.  By the age of 47, you don't even really mind the crow's feet - it's the puffy smooshed bird nest by association that makes you die a little inside.

Fear not!  You don't need the bullshit (probably not literally made from bullshit) hundred dollar face creams.  You don't need Botox.  In a woman's fight to lessen the appearance of crow's feet and their accompanying bird nest, there is a simple solution.  One that we can all implement - starting today.  Are you ready?

REDEFINE THE TERMINOLOGY.  

How about this?  How about we call them what they actually are?  SMILE LINES.  I have SMILE lines. I've spent 47 years smiling.  That's almost half a century of smiling.  I can't and shouldn't want to erase these lines.  They're the marks of a life full of fucking good moments...  Of moments that made me smile,  giggle, snort, titter and guffaw with laughter.

The poofy smooshed face?  I've got something for that.

SLEEP ON YOUR BACK.

Let gravity be your friend.  Buy yourself a kick-ass, neck-supporting, Obus form pillow and convince that thin middle-aged facial skin, which I hope is chock full of smile lines, to slide earward overnight.  You'll thank me in the morning.

And now I have to take extra underwear to work...

"Not cool!  This is NOT cool!"  I exasperate.

"What?  What is it?"  David responds.

"I peed my pants FIVE  times today while coughing!!!"

"Oh hon... You'll do better tomorrow...  Tomorrow you can make it to six!"

"Do NOT make me laugh."  I have already crossed my thighs in preparation for any laugh leakage.

David and Rissa attempt to keep their faces blank.

"It is NOT funny!  You guys!!  I'm coughing ALL THE TIME!!!  I should have done more Kegels.  I did so many a decade ago and it's all gone to hell."  I try one while I standing.

"Are you Kegeling right now?" David asks.

"Yes."  I focus on my nether regions.

"You look terrified and like you're trying to do trigonometry at the same time."

"It makes me feel all squelchy.  I wonder if it's even possible to do rehab for your urethra this far after you've given birth."  (It is.)

"Mummy, I think, just in case, you should take extra underwear to work."

"I'd have to bring a 1/2 a dozen pairs!"

"You could always wear adult diapers..." David suggests helpfully.

"Dude."

He shrugs apologetically, then gives me a look.  "Are you Kegeling again?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out how to accessorize the maxi pad I'll be wearing in my underwear tomorrow."  I pause.    "Now I'm doing Kegels."



 

When did my eyelids turn to crepe paper?

I've never been a real eyeshadow kind of gal.  My eyelid landscape is less pastoral and more one bedroom walk-up.  Sure, in my late teens, I went all out with the blue eyeliner and shadow, but lately, I've stuck mostly to some eyeliner on my upper lids.  If I'm heading out for something fancy, something festive, I might throw on some shimmery highlights to make  my eyes looks bigger than they actually are.  Not anime big - that'd be impossible, and just fucking creepy - but big--ger.

Sometime in the last month, my eyelid canvas lost its stretch.  This past week alone - filled with holiday events - has sent me on a fruitless search for my lost lid collagen.   

Maybe it's under the couch...  Well there you are - climb back up here you little dickens!

Putting on simple eyeliner now involves carefully pulling my upper lid into some semblance of smooth all the while guesstimating the costs of a eye lift.  For eons we have been told to only use our ring finger to smooth anything near our eyes, on account of the fact that the skin there is so freaking delicate.  I'm now terrified that if I use more than one finger to do the stretching for eyeliner, that I'll actually leave a tear in my crepe papery eyelids.

"Heather, how are you?"

"Feeling less like myself and more like Yzma from The Emperor's New Groove... and you?"

But, on the bright side, my eyelids are so loose that I can now use them for finger plucking percussion! 

This brassiere will self-destruct in 10 seconds...

Lifting the straps wasn't helping. Why not?   Lifting the straps always helps.  The band just seems to... What the?  I'm in the office bathroom.  I lift my shirt and present my back to the mirror.  The whole left side of the brassiere band is... torn??  How much pressure are my tatas putting on this brassiere?

I'd noticed the week before that the double-sided fusing tape that sticks the front and the back of the band together was a little more visible - that it was hanging around under my armpits - looking a little worse for the wear, but it's a freaking brassiere!  Sure they get dingy, the cups and band might get loose, under wire might start to poke you, but this brassiere was BROKEN.

It must be these newfangled, wide, comfort bands that they're throwing on all these brassieres.  Well, all the brassieres for the women in their 40s, who want to mask the back pudge and armpit pudge, while still lifting the girls to parallel from the ground.  Nice soft, extra wide, malleable, elastic-y, tuck in your extra flesh, comfort bands that are all the afore-mentioned adjectives, but really don't lift and separate all that much.

In all my 46 years on this planet, I have never had a brassiere break on me before. For the price you're shelling out for the really well-made ones, I feel that brassieres are supposed to last... indefinitely. 

Okay, I just Googled it.  It is recommended that you replace your bra every 6-9 months.  HAH!  Show of hands... who replaces their brassiere every 6-9 months? I just asked around the office - apparently they do.  But I work in an office of mature, well-put together women.  Crap, now I have to research.  Apparently I should have 3-5 everyday bras in rotation and I should never wash them in the washing machine or put them in the dryer.  Who has the time to hand-wash delicates??  I don't put mine in the dryer, but they do go in the washing machine in a delicates bag.  Also, word to the wise, if you have a larger cup-size, your bra won't last as long either.  Excellent, I am now being punished for having a D cup.

So let's just do the math.  3-5 bras, at an average cost of $45 each (not the Victoria's Secret 2 for 1 deals, but not the chichi, made in France, $175 ones either) ... So... $180 (ish) every 6-9 months?  That's $360 a year. PLUS TAX.  That's $406 a year.  Really?  What woman does that?  I now have to start a savings account to pay for brassieres.  My $1.11 a day for support account.

I look into my bra drawer and I have bras that are,  Sweet Jesus, there are some in there that are over 20 years old.  That can't be right.  Yes, many of them are the 10-seconds-to-naked bras - for show and nothing more, it's probably due to their age that these items look better when one is horizontal rather than vertical.

"Hi there sailor... ready to come in to pier?" 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2... and... NAKED.

My Mom just bought me a fancy schmancy strapless bra this past summer. The support it offers is EPIC.  I can jog in this strapless brassiere, not one word of a lie.  Mind you, its massive molded cups make me look like a G cup instead of a D.  Rissa saw it and decided to wear one cup as a helmet.  Not a wonder that when I'm wearing this bra under men will almost have a brain aneurysm trying to meet my gaze.

I can't put it off any longer.  I have to go bra shopping this weekend.  I'm years behind in bra purchases.  I'll simply block off three to five hours on Saturday and try on everything in my size range.  My change room will be a revolving door of decolletage.  I can do this.  I can invest this time in better breast support.  It could be much worse, I could need a new swimsuit.

Why this old thing...?

Nothing like a barium swallow to get you in the mood.

"Shirt, pants, bra... OFF.  Leave only your panties."  The nurse hands me two hospital gowns.  "One on the front, one on the back."  She turns to leave.  "Oh... you can keep your socks on."

"What about my boots?" I joke.   I point to my yellow rain boots.

The nurse looks at me like I'm nuts.  "Probably best not to."

Thank God for striped knee socks...  I'll still be able to make a fashion statement.

One gown on the back.  No problem...  Just tie it up at the neck here and... we're missing one of the ties at the waist.  Let's try the other gown...  untie the two ties and then re- tie it up at the neck and... where's the other frickin' tie?  Ahhhh... it's more like a house dress kind of closure.  I get it.  The other one was probably the same.  Which pale blue, washed-a-billion-times gown would be more pleasing to the eye as the 'front'?  There's a pale blue one with birds on it or an even paler blue one with teddy bears. Fuck it - my ass is covered, I'm going out there.   I grab my purse and exit the curtained cubicle.

"Here are some crystals that you need to swallow with water."  The nurse hands me a medicine cup with what looks to be Liquid Plumber crystals in it.  "It's to give you gas so that the images come out clearer when you swallow the barium.  As soon as the water hits them, they start to work - so you need to swallow it all down right away or it'll come out your nose.  After you've swallowed, don't burp."

I swallow my container of pop rocks with the little bit of water provided.   Don't burp?  It's all I can think about now.  Bloating... bloating... bloating...  stomach extending.

"The radiologist will be with you in a moment - you stand up here."  She indicates a wee dolly platform attached to a movable table.

"Do they have this ride at Wonderland?" I ask.

"Here is your barium.  Hold it in your left hand.  Right hand here." The nurse adjusts the handhold for me. 

The doctor comes breezing in.  Early 40s,  blond, well-coiffed, wearing fetching trousers and... be still my heart... great shoes... He is also Australian.  Well hello sailor...  My morning is looking up.  I smile winsomely at him.

"Good morning Heather.  Any chance that you're pregnant?"

Well, that steals a girl's thunder.  "Nope.  I'm good."

Apparently my bloating must really be working because he gets the nurse to double check.  Awesome.

"Now go ahead and swallow the barium Heather.  Gulp it down as fast as you can."

I chug down the liquid chalk.  Then wipe my mouth.

"Don't worry about that," the nurse says.  "We'll give you a cloth afterwards."

Then the table lowers back and I'm asked to roll around... I snort, thinking of Terri Garr in Young Frankenstein.

"Keep rolling Heather - on your back and then side and then stomach.  That's it.  Keep rolling."

"Do I get a treat after this?"

kunnnnn-clunk...  kunnnnn-clunk...  kunnnnn-clunk...  The machine goes off, documenting my esophagus and stomach for posterity.

"Hope you're getting my good side," I say flirtatiously, with a saucy wink.

"You're doing great, Heather... doing great... Everything's looking wonderful.  Don't breathe, don't breathe, don't breath... and... BREATHE.  You're doing great.  It's all looking good, come on over and I'll show you what I'm seeing here."

The table comes to vertical once more and I step off the dolly platform with incredible grace before sashaying over to the doctor, throwing him my best smile.

"No ulcer, no tumors - you're looking great here.  You have what looks to be inflammation in your esophagus - probably acid reflux.  Do you take a lot of anti-inflammatories?"

"I been taking a lot for my shoulder."

"You might want to give those a rest and just manage with acetaminophen for now."

Handsome and caring... how lovely.

"Thank you so much.  I'm so relieved."

"You're most welcome." He shakes my hand.  "Glad I could give you good news."  He gives me a bright smile which I return enthusiastically.  This was a great way to start my day.

As I'm watching him finish up, the nurse hands me a wet cloth.  "This is for your mouth - you can wipe away the barium contrast..." She motions to pretty much my entire lower face.

Awesome.  I wipe away with the cloth - thinking I'll have gotten it all.  I turn to the nurse.  She shakes her head, points to my chin.

"Enjoy your day," says the Doc as he breezes from the room.

"You as well..." I manage, madly scrubbing at my chalky chin.

Bring It...

"Two piece or one piece?"

"Are you going to need to pee at any time during the day?" asks Rissa.

The thought of having to visit a public washroom while attempting to drag down a wet, clingy (to the point of achieving adhesion to my body), one-piece swimsuit, makes me shudder.

"Point taken.  Two piece it is.  I'll wear a cover up."

I wiggle my ass into the - surprisingly-tighter-this-year - crotch of the bottoms.  Once a year swimming offers new corporeal discoveries.  This spring/summer I discovered that my inner thighs had suddenly, expansively.... developed.

I do up the swim top, sqwoosh my breasts into the appropriate cups and then get them somewhat level; my bodacious bits pushed nearly up to my chin, near-to-choking off my air supply.  I turn my back to the mirror to sneak a peek at my rear view...

"Is that my back?!?"  HOLY CRAP!"  I slam it against the wall to hide  from my own gaze and the world at large.

My back now has the articulated appearance of a caterpillar, all rolls and bulges, from where the supporting back band has tightened - enhancing my extra back and armpit boobs.  On a caterpillar, these bulges can be sexy as hell, but in my twisted female eye?  I resemble a swamp troll.

Quelling the immediate urge to weep, I instead repeat my new mantra, "No problems, only solutions."  I grab my multi-coloured, Pucci-esque, cover up and drag it over my person.  "HAH!"  I place one hand on my hip with insouciance, and flash a smile in the mirror.  "Take that, back boobs!"

Welcome to Peri-menopause - your second adolescence.  Strange that we're not as excited about those developments later in life.    We are SO excited about getting those boobs when we hit puberty - we compare cup size, band size - try out different bras - feel all feminine and grown-up.  Why is it that when our 36 Ds morph into 38 DDDs, we aren't all doing a happy dance in the change room of the bra boutique, giving high-fives to the woman who just measured and then manhandled our breasts into the appropriately-sized bra?

"38 DDD!  YEAH!  WHOO-FREAKING-HOO!"  The confetti cannon will then explode with glitter and streamers.

"What do you plan to do with your new breasts, Heather?" the colour commentator will ask.

"Well Sandy, I'm taking them to DISNEYLAND!!!!"

"And your new inner thighs?"

"I'm going old-school Sandy.  I'm bringing back the 'bloomer.'  Let me show you here what I've done.  These used to be a pair of seersucker pajama pants... I've cut them off to mid thigh, you can choose to hem or not, because no one will see them.  I wear these under all my summer skirts and dresses, entirely eliminating inner thigh friction.  I've brought an extra pair for you to try, go ahead and put them on to see how they really work!"

"Wow, Heather, these are amazing!  I have ZERO thigh friction!"

"That's right Sandy.  And if you buy now, folks, you'll get two free pairs of bloomers along with your initial purchase!  Plus I'll throw in a shirt that actually fits you - no muumuus, no XL t-shirts, and NO club wear.

Peri-menopause is a shocker. Our bodies change - in spite of our best intentions.   I exercise every day.  I try to eat healthfully.  I'm doing squats and and lunges and planks and triceps lifts.  And you know what?  I still have extra boobs and newly voluptuous inner thighs.   Am I thrilled about them?  No.  But I'm 46 years old, folks.   Given how long the women live in my family, I probably have at least another 46 years left on this planet.  The thought of complaining about my physical appearance for all that time?  It's exhausting.

So I'm going to do the best that I can.  I'm going to continue to exercise and eat well and I'm going to wear clothes that actually fit me - not the 24 year old version of myself that media outlets tell me I should cling to.  And the next time my husband and daughter say "You look so beautiful!" I'm going to listen to them.  I'm going to accept their compliments graciously, without a grimace.  I'm going to fight back the judgy-judger inside my head, square my shoulders and say "Bring It!"

And that's why my new boss had to undo my dress in the parking lot...

"Are they going to fit in?"

"I'm trying to make them," says Rissa.

"I swear to you that these breasts were not this large in June."

"I think you might be right."

"What is going on?!?"

"I don't know, Mummy."  Rissa huffs, as she places her knee in my back to gain leverage.  "You can't help at all?"

"Dude!  My right arm might as well be amputated at this point."

"How long will it take for physio to work?"

"I think maybe by 2016 I'll be able to dress myself again."  sigh "It's fitting everywhere else but the boobs, isn't it?"

"Yes.  Blow out all the air in your lungs."

"Maybe... I... shouldn't be..."

"Almost got it...  all... most got it..."  Stay on target... STAY on target...

My boobs are now practically up to my chin.  "This is not natural.  That lady at the bra shop must be right.  It's freaking peri-menopause that's causing this insanity."

"Probably...  There!"  Rissa is triumphant.  "Ta-DAH!!!!  Can you breathe?"

"I'm trying."  I glance at the clock.  "Oh crap!  I'm going to be late!"  I glance at my profile in the entryway mirror.  My breasts are somehow almost up to my chin, and yet, they have morphed into a weird-ass uni-boob under the dress.  "Gotta go baby!  I'll see you before I head to physio."

"No you won't!  I'm heading out to the mall with my peeps!" she yells as I get into the car.

It's not until I arrive at work that I realize I am trapped in the dress.  As my now flattened, yet still bodacious ta-tas tickle my chin, I start to panic a little bit.  I am now channelling my inner debutante -  a bad case of the vapours is seconds away.

"Side zippers.  Only side zippers from now on," I'm muttering to myself as I walk into the office.  I keep my breaths shallow so that I don't displace a rib.

"What's the matter?" one of my co-workers asks.

"Trapped.  I am trapped in this dress.  And my boobs have apparently grown 22 cup sizes since June."

"Pardon?"

"Have I worn this dress this season?  I have, haven't I?  You've seen this before, right?  Oh crap!  Maybe it's the other vintage-y turquoise and green dress that I'm thinking of...  Maybe my boobs aren't on sterioids, maybe it's been a full year since I've worn this dress!  But even so...  if my boobs are this much bigger - shouldn't my ass be the size of Texas?"

Everyone is now looking at me like I'm nuts.

"How did you get into the dress?"

"Rissa managed to do it up.  But I'll never be able to undo it on my own, and I have a physio appt. right after work."  I attempt to reach my right arm up to hold the zipper at the top of my neck...  "Nope!  NOPE!  Sweet merciful... Cut it OFF!  Cut the arm off!"

"What if we rig up a string to the zipper tab and then you can just pull the string at the end of the day?"

"I'm still going to need the other arm to stabilize the zipper.  There's nothing else for it.  One of you is going to have to undress me before I leave the office.  I'll drive home half-dressed and then change before physio."

"Why can't you just have your physiotherapist undress you when you get to your appointment?"

"I am not wearing my best underwear."

The security camera footage in the parking lot should be awesome.

Buy them in bulk

When you find  pants that fit you perfectly - the pair that turns your derriere into the Holy Grail of asses - the pair that makes your ankles look edible - those pants - you buy those in bulk. Retro style cigarette pants. Just above the ankle.  Audrey Hepburnesque.  My version of the cigarette pant is a cropped pant - a little north of being 'floods.'  NOT a capri.  They aren't wide all the way down, they're not skinny all the way down.  Tight where they should be tight with space around the bottom of your leg.    My ass and ankles are made for these pants.

If I catch sight of a pair of cigarette pants in a mod print - I'm lost.  I spotted a pair at Mark's Work Warehouse and I could barely keep it together.  We were shopping - David needed new chinos that didn't cost an arm and a leg.  While he was looking for squooshy socks to go with his new chinos, I caught a gimpse of these cigarette pants.   Black, blue and white.  Kitschy and beautiful.  I might have run across the store to caress them.  I tried them on, and though the only pair even remotely close to my size range was a titch too large -  I didn't care - I had to buy them. It was essential.

A week later, my admiration for these pants had grown, even though I realized that the size I'd bought just wasn't going to stay on, no matter how much I loved the pattern.   Possibly the first time in my life I'd ever had that problem.   I had to go back to stock up in the right size.  As a child,  I never understood why the Sears catalogue offered one thing in about a gazillion colours.  As an adult - it has become clear to me that if you fall in love with how a certain pair of pants makes your ass and ankles look, you want them in every shade available.

So, wearing my too-large pair of pants, we went back to Mark's Work Warehouse - I ran over to the cigarette pant table and picked out four more pairs, in the right size - they even had the pair I was wearing in the smaller size.  I went over to the cash and plunked them down.

"Stocking up?" the cashier asked.

"Yep.  I love these ones so much, I'm going to get them all in the size down."  I stepped back from the counter to show my too-large pants. "These ones, it turns out, are bit too roomy in the waist. "  I felt a little embarassed even mentioning it - like I shouldn't revel in the fact that my body was trimmer than I'd supposed. 

"We can do an exchange for you right now if you like."

"I'm sorry...?"

"We can do an exchange between the pair you're wearing and the pair you're buying - so you'll save a bit of money."

"Oh, but I don't have the receipt with me.  And I'm... we'll... I'm WEARING them right now."

"Not a problem.  You bought them here?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Not a problem... You can just take these ones," she cut the tags off the new size and handed them to me.  "Go change in the changing room and bring back the old ones."

"Seriously?""

"Yep."

That?  That right there?  Will have me shopping at Mark's Work Warehouse for the rest of my life.  Even if it's just for tank tops for me and socks for David - they have my loyalty FOREVER.  I was wearing the other pants and they took them back even though I'd bought the wrong size.  And now ankles look like this:

Game of Thrones could give a gal a complex

Breasts.  Oh, the breasts on  Game of Thrones... They are everywhere.  You can't possibly miss them.   People have been making graphs about the boobs per episode in the show.  They are the pertest, highest, smallest areola'd breasts I've ever seen.  The Red Priestess Melisandre?  SPOILER ALERT Has areolas the size of  dimes.  I mean sure, she's probably cold, most of the time when you're seeing her breasts she's in a bath, or a cool breeze (or at least the breeze from off-camera fans), so it's understandable that her nipples get all tightened, but...  Milisandre's nipples look to be the size of pencil erasers - albeit raspberry-tipped in colour.

If a gal is auditioning for Game of Thrones, is that just a part of the process?  "Great audition!  Loved your take on that scene, beautiful range...  Now if you could just do that scene again naked..."   Quick question: Where are the real boobs?  It has become clear to me that Game of Thrones must be cast entirely of women who have never breast fed a child.

Hate to break it to the Game of Thrones viewers, but womanly areolas are not the size of dimes.  My areolas?  (Please excuse me while I grab the ruler.)  Holy crap!  That can't be right.  They are three inches across!  Seriously?  Let me just measure again...  yep, still three inches.  Now that's at a dead stand-still with no cool breeze or arousal to erect those nipples, and I am a D cup, but I don't think that I'm alone in sporting a pair of ta-tas with areolas larger than a silver dollar. 

I know that the titillation factor on the show is out for a certain demographic, but people aren't just watching for the gratuitous soft porn.  Right... RIGHT???  It's giving viewers a totally unrealistic idea of what to expect from your average free-range breast. The same way that porn makes dudes think that you can have a triple E cup size that doesn't sag.  The producers are really doing a disservice to viewers everywhere by not throwing in a couple of pendulous breasts with dollar-pancake-sized areolas.

And while we're at it, how about some equal full-frontal for the dudes on the show?  You can't possibly tell me that boobs are less a sexual characteristic than the penis.  I mean they're right there - out in front - TA-DA!  Yes they're meant to breast feed our young, but that's not the first thing that goes through a person's head when they see them. "Hey look at those great lactation glands..."  is not tripping off the tongues of viewers.  Sure, the occasional male ass gets thrown in, but it's never for long and you never get the same fondling of a male ass that you get of the female form.

EQUAL FONDLING!
REAL BOOBS!
THROW IN A PENIS NOW AND AGAIN!

I'll have to work on the chant, but you get my drift.

Lumberjack in Drag

"Have you decided what colour you'd like for your nails?"  The esthetician points with her chin over to the selection of nail polishes on the counter as she massaged my calves.

I pick up the nail wheels, vacillating between the reds and the pinks. Seduce Him (although that should really be Seduce Him/Her - I know plenty of gals out there who love it when their partners wear bright red polish on their extremities.  Blushing Bride - HAH!  Royal Tease - Seriously??

Holding the wheel down near my feet to check out the colours in context to their eventual placement, I startle when she says,  "What about your fingernails?"


"Oh, no, I don't do fingernails," I immediately say.

Because I don't.  Not with my hands.  I have big strong 'peasant' hands.  Or so I've been told.  I can't ever buy vintage gloves because my hands won't fit into them.  The girth of my hand is a whopping 8.25 inches.  If I place my hands up against David's, his hands are just slightly larger than mine.  And he's got big hands.

"Nope.  No thank you.  I'd just feel like a lumberjack in drag."

"What?  No!" The esthetician admonishes me.  She grabs my hands.  Splays them out for all the world to see.  "You have strong hands.  Nice long fingers.  Your nails are in good shape.  Don't let anyone tell you that you can't wear polish."

It was revelatory.  'Don't let anyone tell me...'  Nobody, had told me I couldn't wear nail polish.  That was all on me.  A passing comment from years before had apparently scarred me.  The same way when your 4th Grade Art teacher tells you you can't draw, or a relative says you're 'big' when they mean tall.  These things stick with you.  You absorb these comments into your psyche.  You become them.

The time had come for me to say "Fuck it!" and embrace my strong, capable hands...  To adorn them in girly glitter, delight in their durability - to feel the same joy as when I look down at my spectacularly sparkly pink toe nails.  I'm a magpie at heart.  Sparkly things make me happy.  I spend most of my days typing.   At the office, at home - I type.  My hands are in my peripheral vision all day long.  They should be tipped with glitter and glam!  They should make me grin.  Do I like them?  Damned straight, I do!    I'm 45 frickin' years old - it's time to grow up - to own what makes me... ME. 

Wrong shirt, wrong bra...

You know those days?  The days when you think you look a certain way, but then, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, you realize that you are overly optimistic?  Yesterday morning was one of those days.  Yesterday morning the armpit pudge was particularly pulchritudinous.  The bastards. 

I was dressed, ready to hop on the treadmill - one of my tightest sports bras and my old Les Mis t-shirt adorning my torso.  Standing at the kitchen island, I was eating my breakfast.   Across from me was our antique window mirror.  I actually did a small spit take of orange juice.  My two extra front boobs - the ones that hide near my armpits, were more than just visible - they were a solid A cup. 

"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?"

"What?  What?!?" asks David.

"THIS!"  I point to the offending armpit pudge.  "THESE."  Poke.  Poke. (And then a double-time, cross-torso, more accusatory) Poke-Poke.  I lie across the kitchen island and wail, banging my head on the butcher block top.

"Heather - it's the bra.  The bra is too tight.  That's not usually how you look."

"But it's how I look right NOW!"  Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  "I shouldn't have THESE."  Poke. Poke.  "I exercise at least an hour every freaking day!  THESE shouldn't exist.  How much do I have to exercise to get rid of THESE?!?"

This is one of those moments when David knew not to say anything - it could go very quickly from bad to worse if he spoke.  He just waited.

"Stupid thyroid!   Stupid peri-menopause!"

David remained silent.  Blood, I'm sure, filling his mouth from his bitten tongue.

My head fell to my chest.  I took a deep breath, lifted my head and squared my shoulders.  "FUCK IT!"  I tucked the armpit pudge into the bra.  "I'm getting on the treadmill.  I don't want to see YOU again. " (I gave a meaningful glance to the offending flesh with an accompanying Poke. Poke) "Do you hear that?  I will exercise and I will take this too-tight bra off and you will go back to AAA size.  Got that?!?"  I climbed the stairs.  "I will not perform cosmetic surgery on myself, I will not perform cosmetic surgery on myself..."

Heather, the pug-faced girl.

Last winter, to ward off cold air chest pain, David purchased me my very own Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask.

 

Well, it's winter once again, and though Ontario's November was pretty damned temperate, December has been colder than a witch's tit the last little while.  Not generally a problem for most stalwart Canadians, but cold air for Heather?  Cold air, in my lungs, precipitates chest pain.  I was a bit late on my way to work one morning, so I decided to run.  BAD IDEA.  When a person runs, they breathe air faster into their lungs.  Which, come winter time, is cold air.  And my lungs?  Are cold air pussies. I arrived for our staff meeting tinged a little green.  My boss took one look at me and said,

"You're not having a heart attack are you?'

"No, no heart attack.  Just chest pain.  We're good."  I gave a weak thumbs up.

"Chest pain...?"  The rest of the table then turned to look at me.

"No, no, it's okay.  It's not cardiac related.  All good.  See?"  I pummelled my chest like a silverback gorilla to show my strength.   Then I had to stop because I really wanted to lie down and die.

So the Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask came out again.  It actually does help warm up one's breathing air... you know, the face-accessory equivalent of sand-bagging for an impending flood.  The only problem is,  I'm pretty sure I have the wrong size.  I didn't think that I had a ginormous face, but  if I wear my Cold Avenger mask so that the nose part is in the right place, it only goes down to right below my bottom lip and I get chin chafage, and if I wear the cup thingie below my jaw for comfort, the nose part smooshes my nose down and I become a pug with all their attending breathing issues.  Which, if you're already having chest pain, makes it kind of hard to do anything physical on account of the fact that you already want to pass out from not being able to breathe through your nose.

The plus side for all this, is that I can't help but laugh at myself when I'm walking.  Chortling, snorting, at times braying, laughter.  And laughing?  Even with the attending chest pain, always makes me feel better.  I'll willingly cop to being a little Sally Sunshine, 'cause there are worse ways to start my day.  Besides, if you can't laugh at yourself, you're pretty much fucked.

Maybe next time I should just braid it...

WARNING: This post is about girly bits

David was away all last week.  So on Friday, I wanted to spiff up for his return.  You know, wash and style the hair, shave the legs, groom the girly bits.  I wanted to be all smooth and nice smelling - although frankly after a week of sleeping on his own, a female orangutan in bed with him may well have been enough to get his motor running.

The shower went off without a hitch.  I emerged squeaky clean with nicely shaved legs. Gingersnap body lotion liberally spread over my limbs had me wanting to take me to bed.  Then I got down to the real business - the talcum powder and female weed whacker (Epilady) came out.  I always feel like the Epilady needs to be started with a pull start, like a chain saw.  Ring-duh-ding-ding-ding...

Anyone else notice that half these designs are unsymmetrical?!?

There was a time when 'bikini line' actually meant 'bikini line.'  That time has passed. Due to peri-menopause's mad grip on my hormones, the 'must be groomed' area now really stretches from c-section scar to... knee.  In fact, I AM the female orangutan.  After a week apart from your loved one, you want to look good... everywhere.  I'm never completely bare down there, but I do like to keep the shop tidy.  The talcum powder came out to smooth the skin and I went to work.

Upper thigh, actual bikini line, always goes first.  It's never problematic, you don't have to bend yourself in half to get a good view of the area.  Then it's the back of the legs, which, yes, I could just shave, but I'm prone to razor burn and then I'd be all bumpy and I'd have to do it way more often than the once a month it tends to get done now.   After the easy bits, it's time for the most challenging of female grooming.  Inner, inner thigh and upper, upper, back of the thigh.  Both areas come very close to being mistaken for delicate tissue without actually being internal organs. One has to use a cautious hand with the weed whacker in these areas.

Friday night, my hand slipped.  One second I was blithely denuding my inner, inner thigh, and the next I was desperately trying to pry the teeth of the Epilady off my turkey bum.

"Mother-f*!#ing Satan tool!"

I had to rip the cord out of the wall to stop the motor, but before I managed that Herculean feat, the machine had torn through the remains of my perineum, bounced off my labia and grabbed onto my upper thigh. I'm pretty sure that I then went into shock. When I finally looked down, I saw that I had road rash on my hooha and as an added plus, a bald patch.

I had just wanted to look good and now I needed Polysporin and an ice pack.  And some Band-Aids. And folks?  No matter how sexy you try to say it, "Hey there handsome, want to remove my Band-Aids??"  does not really set the romantic mood.  Thank God I'm good at misdirection, is all I'm saying.

Ambushed in the change room!

By my own ass, no less.  It's the 3-way mirror's fault.  Feeling great about myself - finding that cute perfect-for-me dress - that I actually have the money in hand to pay for - I sashay my ass into the change room.  I cast off my clothes and as I'm turning around, I catch a glimpse of something in that 3-way mirror.

I was wearing a thong on account of the fact that the particular jeans I'd worn were tightish and I didn't want panty  lines.  This was not a sexy thong - I still wear the maternity thongs that have that nice wide waist-band - even though the last time I was pregant was almost 9 years ago.  They are fashioned from man-made fibres - they will survive the APOCALYPSE as long as I continue to wash them.  Which I do and have been ever since I bought the suckers.  I know how important it is to be wearing clean underwear...  Sorry, I got distracted by the thong...  The glimpse that I caught in the mirror was my bruised ass!  On either side of the thong bit that goes between your cheeks, I had deep blue bruises on my ass.  What the hell had I done to myself?  How could my ass be bruised? How does one even DO that?!?

I reach down to see if the bruises actually hurt and they are not actually bruises... it's ass lint.  I have blue ass lint from my jeans.  AND as if that wasn't depressing enough, as I haphazardly glance up, I can also see my back in the mirror.  Bulgy-bulgy-back-bulges around my bra.  Above it and below - made worse because I'm contorting my head around to view the ass lint damage.  I spin back to face front, but I'm in a 3-way mirror - and although I can no longer be horrified by the ass lint I can still see on both my right and left, bulgy-bulgy-back-bulges.   I have to jump to the side, out of the mirror's view and flatten myself against the wall NOT to see them. In the blind spot of the change room, I  struggle into that perfect-for-me dress.  I reach out with one leg and unfold the mirror's right side - then I do the same to the left side so there is now one large flat mirror in front of me.  I jump in front of the mirror - giving a heroic "HAH!"  And damn, don't I look fantastic in that dress! 

M... M... M.... My Melasma

 This is the soundtrack for this post.

I have always been fish belly white.  Some smatterings of freckles on my face in the summer, but traditionally, my pale skin could be used as a signal point in the dark. Like you could line a bunch of me up on a runway and we'd be great markers for night flights arriving at Toronto's Pearson Airport.

A couple of years ago I started developing melasma (a tan or dark skin discoloration) upon my face.  Pregnant women occasionally get this - it's dubbed The Mask of Pregnancy - kind of like the Mask of Zorro, but you can't take this mask off.

I'm NOT pregnant and I never had it during pregnancy, but turns out other hormonal changes in women can bring it on too.  Like, say... peri-menopause.   And, I've just now read, thyroid disease.   ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?  What do I have? Peri-menopause AND thyroid disease.  So basically, I'm doubly screwed without any of the benefits.

I went to a skin clinic to see how much it would cost to treat.  For a mere $1000 they could give me laser treatments and accompanying cream that might help.  MIGHT?  For $1000, they should give you a freaking guarantee, I'm thinking.  I figured that using some BB Cream would be a lot cheaper and would mostly mask the mask.  Now it just looks like I'm new to this whole 'makeup' thing and have forgotten to smooth my foundation on my jawline.

"You know if you feather out the edges..."

"I HAVE feathered out the frickin' edges - my face is a whole different colour than the rest of me!!!  This colour?!?  It's doesn't come off!"

Every time I've mentioned it to David, he just shakes his head.  "You look beautiful.  You always look beautiful."

"To YOU!  I always look beautiful TO YOU!!"

"No, I think we can state empirically..."

"You have love juice in your system - you're not thinking rationally!!"  I hold up my arm to my face.  "See this?!?  THIS is the colour my face should be!"

"Yeah, but your face gets sun..."

"I wear SPF 30 EVERY day, I should have NO colour on my face, I should look like a freaking MIME!"

"A little colour is good - makes you look healthy.  When you don't have colour on your face, people usually ask you if you're okay."

"BLAAAAARGH!!!"

Mentioned the melasma to my doctor at my yearly physical.  "Oh, that's hardly noticeable at all.  You just have a bit of colour in your face.  If it's hormonal you can't really do anything about it anyway."   He was facing away from me when I made to strangle him.

The good news is... after my body has decided its hormonal future, these particular delights should stop.  After I've truly made it through THE CHANGE I might get my skin back - possibly my rationality too.

I don't remember buying this hairsuit.

WARNING:  Adult language in this post

I never used to be this hairy.  I mean sure, I had the pubes, I had the pits - I shaved - below the knee - because my mother had warned me against above the knee shaving as if it could end civilization as we know it. Taking my hands in hers, eyes so serious, "You don't want to have stubbly knees Heather." 

I noticed my first chin hair when I was in high school.  I remember being in typing class - in between time trials - and feeling the prickliness of that single hair, underneath my chin - embedded, it seemed, in my chin scar.  The scar was the result of a childhood injury with a springy horse at the playground when I was two, a good place to have one's first scar - conveniently obscured underneath the shelf of your jawbone.

I didn't even really notice the other hairy bits emerging until my Dad made primate noises when I appeared in my bathing suit in my late teens.    "OOOOH!  OOH!  OOH!"  Deep throaty noises to trumpet the arrival of longer and darker hair on the backs of my thighs.  Back of your thigh hair is impossible to really pay attention to unless you spend a lot of time feeling yourself up or trying to wrap your own legs around your head.  So I blithely went around for years, unaware of my Zorba-esque rear view.  I was befuddled.  I knew about the "if you shave it will come back darker and hairier" threat, but I hadn't shaved there!  Not since the first time when I was 11 and hadn't yet been advised against such insanity.  The lag time was incredible!  That back of my thigh hair was what prompted the  purchase of my first epilady to tear the offending colour and texture off those legs.

That epilady is now used to tear hair from the backs of my thighs, the fronts of my thighs, my inner thighs, my bikini line, the tops of my feet - HOLY FUCK!  I'VE BECOME A FREAKING HOBBIT!!! - the tops of my big toes.  It'd be used on my neck and my chin hairs if I weren't terrified that I might catch the not-quite-as-taut-as-it-used-to-be neck flesh in it's tweezing clutches.  The chicken skin behind my knees has suffered from that mistake and it hurts like fuck.

The denuding never happens as often as it should, usually before I know David and I will have sex or I'm having my physical or a massage.  Which is why it generally ends up being a rushed affair with imperfect results.  Days later, I'll be having that last nude before-bed-pee and look down and notice entire swaths of hair that I had missed.  The next quarter of an hour is spent with me shivering on the toilet, obsessively ripping the offending hairs from my person.

One day.  One day I shall have unlimited wealth and I shall have a team of strong young men (all ex-Olympic swimmers) to take care of my hair... scratch that.  They'd have to see me all hairy and orangutan-like.  Not going to happen.  Better to have the Eastern European Aesthetician wax me or - I'll save up the big bucks and have laser hair removal.  And then I will have that team of strong young men massage my smooth and hairless thighs - front and back and as far up the inside as I can, before it costs the extra bucks.

Do not take me into natural light...

When did I get to be so freaking hairy?  I should be in one of those carny magazines with the caption Hirsute Heather as I wear some Victoria styled gown bustled to a steam-punk length and a fascinator to show off my spectacular facial hair.   There is something about the quality of the sun in the summer months.  It's like a night club at 2:00 a.m., when they turn the lights on and you realize that the sexy chick you've been plying with tequila sunrises all night, is actually Ernest Borgnine.

Natural light is horrifying.  I'm not big on waxing.  I shave my lower legs (shin & calf) fairly regularly and I've got one of those epilady things that rips the hair off other parts of your legs - kind of like a garburator but for leg hair - but I forget to use it.  'Cause let's face it, most people don't spend all their time thinking about  leg hair until they are out in public.  If I contort my body to get a good glimpse of the back of my legs, I might put out a rib. NOT looking is really for my own well-being.   Besides, in the safety of your own home, leg hair usually ain't so bad, but when that natural light hits you - that's when this gal of mostly Scandinavian DNA begins to resemble Zorba the Greek.  Stanley could seek out Livingstone on the backs of my thighs. Please devote a moment to visualizing miniature explorers on the back of my legs with machetes.

I heeded my mother's advice for many a year and did not shave above the knee.  The tops of my thighs were mostly blond and not terribly bothersome.  A few years back, to spice things up a bit I shaved... pretty much from the pelvis down (more on the pelvis part later).  They say it's an old wives' tale that if you shave it'll grow in darker.  I am here to tell the old wives weren't making that shit up, because my thigh hair is now no longer blond - it is black.  I'll be sitting on the beach - and I'll glance down and then have to stifle a shriek of horror and surprise.  HAIR!  As far as the eye (or least MY eye) can see.  And I'm in a freaking bathing suit, exposing it to the world at large.  That's when any sane being would just ignore it.  Noone else is going to be close enough to see it.  It's not like people are wearing science fiction "Follicular Glasses" to zoom in on the wild hair on the locals at the beach.  But there I am, shaded in my little half tent, using the nails of my thumb and first fingers as impromptu tweezers to tear out the offending hair, thereby drawing attention to the fact that I have now devolved to ape state to the entire beach front.

I did the Brazilian thing a couple of times - denuded myself of all the hair down there.  I sought out a Russian aesthetician on Yelp who was highly acclaimed, who bent me near in half to get literally where the sun didn't shine.  David, accustomed to the way women are supposed to look like from the canon of adult films, was thrilled.  (See that?  My husband is one of the millions of men in the world who have been conditioned into thinking that having access to what looks like a pre-pubescent pelvis is sexy.  Shudder.)  Me?  Not so much.  I felt like a plucked chicken and about as sexy.  Does this Brazilian make my labia look fat?  PLUS?  There was NO friction.  My body didn't know what the hell had happened to it.  AND (but wait there's more) after having had all the downtown muskrat hair ripped out, when it did come back in (after that incredibly itchy, make-you-look-like-you-have-crabs waiting period), some was missing.

In peri-menopause, I now have this downy coating of mostly (thank freaking God) blond fluff on my face.  When I'm in the bathroom, if there's natural sunlight beaming into the room - my face sort of sparkles with the blonde down - which is a good contrast against the splotchy skin discoloration that has also come upon me at this stage in my life.  Sort of looks like I've been mottled with freckles then dipped in baby chick down.  Rissa, of course, adores it.  "Your face is so soft..."  She'll play with the longer hairs (the ones you don't see until after a social event) around my jawline.  "It's like you're glowing Mummy.  You're so beautiful!"  Perspective shift.  It's then that I usually do my best to re-fucking-lax and get over myself.  That's also when I usually vow to wear sunglasses in the house so that I won't notice all this shit.

Naked in the mirror after 40

If I'm going to get screwed, I'd like to be in on it.  I'm not generally a passive participant.  I don't just lie back and think of the Queen.  If I'm getting well and truly screwed I want to enjoy it.  I want to scream operatically with release when it gets really good.

Naked in front of the mirror, on Saturday morning, I came to the stark realization that I had been royally screwed and I had no recollection of it ever having happened.  It was like I'd been given GHB when I was 12 and woke up when I was 45.

The first time a doctor told me I needed to lose weight was when I was 12.  I was 5 foot 4 inches and weighed a whopping 120 lbs.  Which is pretty much what you're supposed to weigh when you're 5' 4" tall.  A little less or a little more, but I was definitely in the general area.   I had boobs and hips and I'd already begun to hate them. If I didn't have THESE nobody would bother me.  At the age of 14, I was put on an extra cardio routine to meet my rec coaches' expectations of a gymnast's proper body type.  I wasn't even  a competitive gymnast.  I went to the gym twice a week, my big trick was a back walkover on the balance beam.

In my late teens and early 20s, I wouldn't ever rest my full weight on someone's lap, believing that my considerable heft would cut off their circulation.  I was too round, too fleshy.  I look back at pictures from my early 20s and I was neither.  I looked healthy.  Yeah, I had curves, (see boobs and hips from above), but I was by no means fat.    And yet, at that time, even without a full-on eating disorder, I didn't see my body as something healthy or attractive.

I didn't dip my toes into bulimia until my mid 20s.  I wasn't a card-carrying member - I was more the binge until I felt sick and then throw up to get rid of the nausea kind of bulimic.  Probably only happened about a dozen times, she types dismissively.  But it still happened.  Because I despaired when saw my armpit pudge or my inner thigh fat.

Many women spend much of their early lives (pretty much until they partner up) worried about how they look.  The mating dance is very important.  We buff, we preen, we diet - usually to attract a mate.  (Rarely, in my youth, was I the focus of my efforts.   I am wearing this to look good for me.  I am becoming healthy for me.  It takes a loooooong time before women do things for ourselves.  Some women never do it.  We tend to be so blind to our own wants and needs and even physical appearance that we never emerge from our personal cocoon and spread our wings for ourselves.) 

I hate to say it, but most women are all about snagging the mate.  We are, after all, still mammals, even if our 'higher minded' intellect would prefer not to recognize it. When I was younger, EVERY SINGLE SPRING my body wanted to meet the biological imperative of mating.  Really a lot.  A whole bunch.  And then when I was on the cusp of peri-menopause, I morphed into a 17 year old boy with a sex drive that would rival Casanova's.  Gotta use ALL these eggs up before they go bad!  

Even though society is shifting, that marital urgency is still present.  We'd love to think that we in North America have moved beyond that - but 'partnering up' is still a big freaking deal.   But what happens after you've snagged that mate?  What happens when most of your life has been spent wanting to be seen as attractive to potential partners, what happens after that?  Do you just wake up one morning and not worry about it?  For that first year after Rissa was born - I was not a sexual being.  I was revelling in motherhood.  I really didn't care.  I was too exhausted to care.  It's only now, when I look at photographic and video evidence of that year that I find myself completely horrified.  What had happened to me?  Why was I dressed in sweat pants and baggy shirts?  Did I have no clue that dressing in larger clothes to camouflage baby weight just doesn't work?  I hated myself for caring.  My psyche probably should have shifted - except it hadn't.  Because I'd been conditioned for almost 2 decades to worry about how I looked.  And apparently you can just let that shit go or at least I couldn't.

And even though now, at the age of 45, I'm probably the most fit that I've ever been, I still worry about the extra 20 lbs that I should lose to be at my 'healthy' weight.  I look at my boobs in the mirror - noticing that the left one is slightly lower than the right one - I do my 'mock hunchback' to make them even.  My thighs, my strong and flexible thighs with their extra stores of fat at the top, would probably ensure my survival if my plane went down in the Arctic, but I don't care about that.  I CARE that when I wear stockings, I have  freaking huge bulgy divots in my thighs.  Sadly, it appears that I haven't evolved. Society doesn't tell us how to evolve from sex object to madonna.  In the new millennium, youth is where it's at.  You're not allowed to look 40 when you're 40.  You're not allowed to have lines on your face - smile lines are crow's feet.  Now you have to be a MILF - you have to be vital and sexy and desirable.  WHY?!?  My Mom didn't have to be a MILF.  Until last weekend, she didn't even know what a MILF was.  Thing was, my Mom still got dressed up, made an effort, was still sexy without even really working at it.  Why did it seem so difficult for me to do the same thing?

33 years.  From the age of 12 until now.  I have spent 33 years worried about how I look.  I have focused on what is deemed attractive, to the detriment of health and emotional well being. I have been brain washed by the beauty, fashion and media industries... and by... me.   I think that it's time to snap out of it.  Don't you?

When did I start needing face spackle?

It appears that I can no longer sleep on my side.  Because when I do?  My face develops sleep craters.

I get up, well-rested, thinking all is well with the universe, until I look in the mirror.   My face, which had enjoyed the delicate sqwoosh of the pillow beneath my cheek, now has a sleep crater around its eye.

And you know what?  They don't make face spackle.  Not for eye craters, not for forehead lines, and even if they did, you'd have to buy it in a tub - not a tube.  Seeing as eye cream generally goes for $20 or more for 15 ml of the stuff, I know I couldn't afford a freaking tub of it.

I've even attempted to convince my face to  go back to where it's supposed to be with intricate facial exercises, but I'm realizing that you pretty much just have to wait it out until your face bounces back on its own.  This can be tough going, given the elasticity a gal's face retains after the age of 40. 

I'm lucky if 'bounce back' happens after my morning decaf and breakfast... but there are days I just have to use my hand to make it look like I'm deep in thought well into mid-morning.  Plus, that way I can pull everything up and out of the way and I look really alert.

i DESPISE summer!

WARNING: There is adult language in this post

 

Just shoot me now.  Please.

I know, I know... I know that I'm not supposed to.  After a long winter and meteorologically weird spring, I know that I'm supposed to be SO happy that heat has come to Canada... but for me, summer in Southern Ontario sucks the BIG ONE, BIG TIME.  Summer sucks King Kong's massive dick and the Blob's sweaty balls.  It sucks Godzilla's gigantic gonads and Pulgasari's prodigious prick.  It sucks Crocosaurus's collasal chubby!  It sucks  Mothra's massive meat stick!  Summer SUCKS!!!

Honestly, I would rather have -45 °C with the windchill than a humidex of over 27 °C. You know why?  Because you can dress for the cold.  You cannot dress for the heat.  Once you're naked, short of flaying the skin from your body, you can't get any more naked.  How many times must I powder my inner thighs so that they don't stick together?!?  HOW MANY?!?  'Cause I am not, nor have I ever been a gal who has a 'thigh gap.'  And who are these sick pukes who are hyping the 'thigh gap' as something to achieve?  I want to find those people and drown them in a pool of cellulite.

I have heat rash on top of my heat rash.  You cannot feel sexy when you have heat rash on your ass.  David will kiss me before bed, trying to get my motor running...  I look at him like he has suggested that we roll in barbed wire and then have a salt water bath.

I start sweating IMMEDIATELY after getting out of the shower.  I have to dry off AFTER drying off... Several times.  Humidity is an oppressive bitch!

I have fantasies about snowstorms or a cold snap in the fall - that is what I want.  It has only been 3 days of hot so far this summer.  I'm doomed.  No wait!  If I hide in the basement and we use only the BBQ to cook, and I exist on Diazepam I might be able to survive.  I might make it through to September.  Or.... OR... I could just spend the entire summer at the movies.  Now there's a way to problem solve.  I wonder if I could sneak in a sleeping bag.  Wish me luck.