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.

R'UH R'OH!! I'm behaving inappropriately... AGAIN.

I'm screwed.  My new crush is totally inappropriate on at least 2 levels (there might be more).

1. He's an 18 year old boy.
   
   *face palm*
   
   (But really, if you think about it - this isn't as bad as when I had a crush on Taylor Hanson when he was 16, because at least this kid is technically LEGAL.)
2. He bears more than a passing resemblance to my daughter's 13 year old boyfriend.  And that, my friends, makes me a perv AND a bad Mom.
   
   *face palm*

I recently heard him interviewed on a rebroadcast of yesterday's Q with Jian Ghomeshi.  This 18 year old was so freaking well-spoken that I actually got turned on listening to him. (Quick!  Hit the listen button on the Q page right now before you even scroll down - experience what I initially experienced while driving home last night .) The fact that's he's adorable and articulate??  I was already in the midst of indecent day dreams about the kid WHILE DRIVING HOME.  Eloquence is my crack.  That doesn't sound right.  Eloquence is like crack to me.  Someone who can turn a phrase with confidence?  sigh. 

But then I got home and Googled the kid  and he looks like this:

Jan Lisiecki.

I mean LOOK at him.  Just LOOK at him.  I want to pick him up and squidge him!  PLUS, in addition to being my latest skinny blonde boy crush (young Leonardo DiCaprio, young Taylor Hanson, young Ilia Kulik), he's this astoundingly fantastic pianist.  I listened to him play two Chopin Etudes and got positively light-headed.  Then I might have watched a video of him playing and of course had to extrapolate about how all that intensity and manual dexterity would make for some pretty spectacular fireworks in a more intimate arena... Hold on... wait a second... I just need another second here...

NO!!!!!!

Bad Heather.  Very bad Heather.   But I mean, come on, LOOK AT HIM!!!

It's a Thanksgiving Miracle!!

"OH!!!"

"What?" asks David.

"OH MY GOD!!!"

"What?!?  What is it?" David now sounds a bit panicked.

"Mummy, you're scaring him," says Rissa.

"IT'S A MIRACLE!!!  IT'S A THANKSGIVING MIRACLE!!!"  I'm standing in Rissa's doorway.  My shock is palpable.  I've never actually seen this - not while it was actually happening - not in my entire life.  I'm feeling a little swoony.

"SHE'S MAKING HER BED!!!  RIGHT NOW!!"

"OH MY GOD!!!!"

"I KNOW!!!!"

"You told me to make my bed last night," says Rissa rolling her eyes.

"Yes, but I tell you to make your bed EVERY NIGHT.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you."  I kneel in the doorway, looking up to the heavens to whichever deities made this possible, before rushing in and squeezing her in my proudest maternal hug.  "This means you actually LISTENED to me."

How long does it take to become ambidextrous?

It hurts when I brush my teeth.  My SUPER SPINATUS (Rotator Cuff) has betrayed me.  I'm not brushing my teeth particularly violently or anything.  I think it's just those wee little movements at that particular angle.  I start the day off wincing.  And what's really depressing is that it's not from having had twisty-bouncy sex the night before. 'Cause that kind of wincing is always accompanied by that satisfied smirk on your face.  You forgive the pain, because what went on before, was so freaking great.

I've decided that I need to stop using my right arm and become proficient with my left.  How long do you figure it will take?  Instinctively I high five people or reach for things or lean on that arm, so I need to abandon it, strap it down and begin using the other one.  I tried brushing my teeth with my left hand this morning and it didn't go well.  Water and toothpaste everywhere.  My spaz factor was at 11.  I wounded my gums.

I've got some great ambidextrous inspirations: Michelangelo, Einstein, Tesla, Leonardo da Vinci.  Very arty and sciency dudes.  And I'm not 100% sure, but if Escher wanted to his ability kept secret, he shouldn't have given us things like this:

M.C. Escher 1948

Plus?  I'm pretty sure that I could become a superhero if I were ambidextrous.  Less than 1% of the population is ambidextrous - which if we had accurate statistics on superheroes would probably reflect EXACTLY the same percentage!!  Or is that super models?  Me becoming a super model would take a bit more time and money I'm thinking.  The recuperation time alone from adding extra 3 inches to my torso and legs would be at least a couple of months.   Probably not as much fun as being a super hero either.  But step one is definitely the ambidextrous thing, regardless.  Which, seeing as I've already achieved mad touch typing skills, I'm well on my way!

Warming up before the bouncy-bouncy...

WARNING: This post is about sex

I never thought there would come a day where I would have to stretch before having sex.  Honest to God, it's not like we're particularly athletic about it.  I'm not doing a handstand against the wall or anything.  We're not suspended from a chandelier.  I'm just lying on my back with my legs in the air - you know propped open for... ahem... action. (bown-wown-chicka-wown-wown)

I think I'm in one position too long.  I remember those days when you'd get so het up that the barest of touches could set you off.  None of this 15 - 20 minutes before the big finale.  That's why my poor arthritic hips give me grief. The day after sex, I feel like I'm 70.  My frickin' joints are shot to hell - it's what comes of nearly a decade of gymnastics.

Thing is?  When the urge hits - you want to go with it, you want to let it happen.  Nothing ruins a good frisson of sexual tension like stopping to stretch out your quads and triceps (you gotta stretch the triceps too - you know for when you're holding onto the headboard too tight). 

"Do you want to... waggle of eyebrows... STRETCH?"

"Oh baby, I'll STRETCH with you.  You just get down here and we'll do that partner GROIN STRETCH..."

We'll strip seductively, NOT getting caught up in any of our clothing as it comes off, because my 'go-to' if I ever get stuck in my sweater, is to do a clown routine which generally shifts the mood from sex to slapstick.  No longer aroused, we are now amused, and crossing back over that particular divide takes work.  When you find yourself giggling madly after sex, it's incredibly therapeutic, but it really puts the kibosh on the kink in the early stages.

In the early stages, you can't get too distracticated.  "Oooooh, look, something shiny!!"  Gone are the days where it's Wham Bam Thank You (insert appropriate pronoun).  If you start to get tingly, you've got to jump onto that horse and ride it into Coitus Land, do not stop, do not wash that last plate in the sink - GO HAVE SEX!  You want to be in good shape, ALL THE TIME.  So that, at a moment's notice, if your partner gives you the come hither look, you can drop everything, take those stairs 2 at a time up to the bedroom, abandon civility and get down to it. 

Basically, Adult Yoga = Flexible Sex.  It's a win-win.  And not only will the sex be better, but you're going to be in better shape so you'll be able to do other activities.  Though let's face it, being an octagenarian who can do reverse cowgirl and survive?  Great incentive.

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.

Anyone else's kid do this?

"If you had a fake laugh what would it be?"  Rissa asks as we're walking to her dance studio. (We have one car, David takes it to school, if David's late at work, we have to figure transportation shit out.  Rissa opted for the walking option instead of biking.  This happened half way through our 15 minute walk.)

"Beg your pardon?"

"We all need a fake laugh!  You know, if you had to pretend that you thought something was funny, when you didn't really think it was funny - what kind of laugh would you have?  Would it be... you know...  (she trills) "Heee-heeee-heeee-heeee-heeee...  or... (she brays)  "AW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW..." or  (she snorts) "Giggle-giggle-snort-giggle..." or (she blarts) "Huh! HUUUUUUHH!  Huh-huh-huh..." or... (she machine guns) "Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh..."

I shoot her a look.

"My brain just thinks of these things. Sometimes I even confuse myself.   I'm saying this because so and so's brother laughed and I honestly thought it was a fake laugh.  I laughed because his laugh was so ridiculous. And that got me to thinking.  You have to have a fake laugh.  Just in case.  You know, for emergencies."

"I'd have to go for the Katharine Hepburn/Philadelphia Story  laugh."

She looked dumbfounded.  Dear GOD, she didn't know who Katharine Hepburn was.  I had failed her as a parent.  She'd never seen The Philadelphia Story.  She didn't understand the brilliance of casting Cary Grant, Jimmy Steward and Katharine Hepburn as the three corners in a near-perfect screwball comedy triangle.   It was then I made a solemn vow to educate her, as we should all educate our children in classic cinema - we shall batten down the hatches and make a weekend of it.