MOLES? We don't need no stinking MOLES!

Is mole DNA similar to rabbit DNA? And by "mole" I mean a mole on your face or body, and by rabbit I mean literal fucking rabbits. If you have two moles on your face, do their melanocytes then multiply exponentially like the proverbial rabbit? Is my face now a Ponzi Scheme?

Last year I had one small mole on my forehead, which I totally thought was a zit, but it wasn't, because no matter how hard I tried to pop it, nothing happened. Then another one showed up on my forehead and another, then one on my cheek and then two more on the opposite cheek. And now there are two others that have developed beside my mouth. 

If, over the past year, my one benign mole (because, yeah, I checked that shit out with a dermatologist) has become eight, I'm fairly certain that within a decade I will become the Mole-Faced Woman. The upside of this eventuality is that it can, and should, be monetized. 

Today? My skin melts. I go upstairs to pluck my chin, neck and face hairs (because THAT'S a daily thing now) and my skin has slumped like melted wax. My thought process goes like this:

"WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!?"

I try to recall all the things that I've done so far over the course of the morning that might contribute to a House of Wax moment upon my person, but it takes me a full 90 seconds of panicked thought before I calm down enough to realize that they are just slinkles (sleep wrinkles). That calm is lost when I realize that those slinkles remain embedded in my skin four fucking hours after I have stopped sleeping on my face AND and I have no recollection of even seeing my face this morning, even though logic says that that shit had to have been there earlier, like WHEN I WOKE UP.   

Do you know that they make pillows for this? To avoid slinkles. They look like the kind of pillow you might wind up on if you have cervical trauma. For $174.00 + tax you can sleep the sleep of the uncomfortable so that your face at least slumps backward while you sleep.

Whenever I mention any of these things to David or Rissa they look at me like I'm nuts.

"Nobody notices this stuff but you."

"Uhhhhhh.... not true. Every other menopausal woman out there notices this shit."

"On themselves maybe, but not on other people. You have to be VERY close to other people like REALLY close to notice what YOU see in a mirror with 5X magnification."

I can't fault this chain of thought. No one other than David and Rissa gets that close to me - especially now, with all the physical distancing and mask wearing. In spite of laser eye surgery, David's eyes don't even really work that well up close and personal and Rissa repeatedly tells me that I am crazy and that I'm beautiful the way I am and I should just accept that fact.   Plus, with me already starting to forget shit? I'm not going to remember what my original face looked like. So the next time I gaze into my 5X magnification mirror, I can just be happy that I own one that helps me locate that mother-fucking white hair on my neck that I've been playing with for the last hour as I've been watching The Crown.

Accept no substitutes

"Mom, Sean Connery died."

"What? Oh no! When?"

"This morning. He was 90."

"Oh... well, that's a good long life, but still very sad."

"Yeah, it is. I know he was your favourite."

"Yes, yes, definitely him, then Daniel Craig."

David pipes up in the background. "Second favourite."

For a moment, I am dumbfounded. "You CAN'T be serious."

"What?" David says, looking confused.

"What's going on there?" my Mom asks on the other end of the phone.

"Sean Connery is your SECOND favourite?!?" I start to stand.

"What's happening?" Mom asks.

"NO! Your Mom's! It's your Dad and then Sean Connery!" David is literally backing away from me.

"Oh, thank God," I say, sitting back down. "I thought you meant that he was YOUR second favourite Bond. That you were going to say some shit about Roger Moore being first, and then I was going to have to punch you in the throat."

"Wow. You are next level with your Connery devotion."

"Heather? Heather?" My Mom is a bit frantic on the phone.

"Sorry Mom." I then catch her up on my David's theory of favourites. 

"Well," she laughs. "He is definitely up there for me."

"This could have been an enormous, terrible, marital revelation for me. I mean, we all know that it goes Sean Connery, Daniel Craig, then the pretty-much-interchangeable Brosnan/Dalton, George Lazenby for giving Bond any sort of emotional grounding and then Roger Moore for camp."

"You'll get no argument from me," says David, hands in the air.  

***

To ignore Connery's incredible acting talent outside of the Bond franchise would be near-heresy. I haven't seen all his movies, but among my favourites are: amateur psychotherapist Mark Rutlege from Marnie, train robber Edward Pierce in The First Great Train Robbery (he did all his own stunts - it's un-fucking-believable!), space Marshal William T. O'Niel from Outland, monk William of Baskerville who gives Umberto Echo's The Name of the Rose incredible heart, immortal warrior Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobos Ramírez from Highlander, his Oscar-winning portrayal of Chicago cop Jim Malone from The Untouchables, crotchety senior archaeologist Henry Jones Sr. in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Russian submarine Captain Marko Ramius (still with the Scottish accent) from The Hunt for Red October and ex-MI-6 agent John Patrick Mason in The Rock. 

Now I'm going to watch all those again and discover some more of his best. You should too.

https://www.rottentomatoes.com/celebrity/sean_connery

***

After writing this post - it was brought to my attention that Sean Connery made some statements in Playboy in 1965 and then again in a 1987 Barbara Walters interview (defending the original Playboy statement) about how slapping women was sometimes warranted. 

https://www.newsweek.com/amid-tributes-sean-connerys-views-slapping-women-have-been-largely-overlooked-1543819

I really hate when someone I've respected has done shit like this. Yeah, he was born in 1930, yeah, he was a product of his generation with all its attending thoughts about how women could/should be treated, but outside of consensual kink, slapping women isn't and hasn't been a good thing to do for a LONG time. And yeah, in 2006, he recanted his statement, but then said that the original quote in Playboy had been taken out of context. This is not a man who took ownership of a belief that was wrong nor did he admit to the error of his ways. 

I think I broke him

"Have you ever wanted to buy me a special outfit?" I ask David.

"Pardon?" David asks, turning his head towards mine.

We're in bed, reading. He has a puzzle book and a pencil. He's writing in the margins. I'm reading a contemporary romance.

"Like, have you ever wanted to choose something specific for me to wear?"

 "Choose?" His eyebrows are frowning.

"Doesn't have to be clothes. Like a pair of sexy shoes. Or boots! You like boots." I smile and waggle my eyebrows at him. "I'm a size 9."

"No."

"Are you okay? You've gone a little pale."

"What? No, I'm good, I'm good."

"I mean, like if you found a pair of boots that Kalinda Sharma* would wear - would you be, 'I think you'd look good in these...'?" 

"Ummmm..." 

"Or, if you had a favourite outfit of mine that you'd like me to wear, you know, that you really LIKE?"

"NO!" He now looks like he might throw up a little.

"David?"

"Uhhhhh..." If I were interrogating him in a SPEC OPS unit, he would look more comfortable than he does now.

"Hey," I say, now fully turned towards him. "What's going on?"

"The... uh... the thought of me buying you something to wear, that you may or may not like, or picking out a dress for you? It really stresses me out."

"But if it's something that YOU'D like me in? It wouldn't really matter if it wasn't my favourite, if YOU liked how it looked on me. Haven't you ever seen something that you might want me to wear?"

He seems like he might be in a fugue state.

"David?" His eyes have definitely glazed over. "David??" I put my hand on his chest.

"I can barely pick out my OWN clothing!!" he explodes. "I stress over choosing SOCKS in the morning!! That's why I'm so glad when you buy me mix & match clothes so that I don't have to THINK about what I'm wearing!! CLOTHING?!?!?! Buying it, deciding about it, just for ME is STRESSFUL! Trying to choose something for YOU? I... It... I..." 

He is this close to hyperventilation.

"I just thought because I always like it when you get all dressed up. Like if you even shine your shoes for me..."

"Yeah, but you BOUGHT those shoes for me!! I didn't CHOOSE those shoes!!"

"What if you were choosing from the dresses that I already have, or the boots I already have?"

"I trust your judgement!!"

"You don't have a favourite dress that gets you all hot and bothered when I wear it?"

"I DON'T REMEMBER A SINGLE ITEM OF CLOTHING THAT YOU OWN!!!"

"Seriously?"

"SERIOUSLY!!!"

I'm taken aback. I could tell you almost every t-shirt that David has, what his underwear looks like, his dress shirts...

He starts laughing. "Right now, I'm trying to think of your dresses, and literally in my brain is the word GREEN with a question mark beside it!"

I snort. "Seriously?'

"Yes."

"So me saying that you could buy me a sexy pair of boots, that I would actually be wearing for YOU?"

"Scares the shit out of me. I'm on the verge of a panic attack right now." He's nearly hysterical with laughter. It's contagious. Very soon we're finding it difficult to breathe and are almost wetting ourselves.

"Oh love..." I smooth the hair from his forehead. "This was supposed to be like a sexy couples' thing to think of. Not pressure. I was just reading this book when the guy, he picked out an outfit and..."

"And that? That idea? Terrifies me. You... you have great taste in clothes. You always look good. You come downstairs all dressed up and I always think you look good."

"But you, having anything to do with the choosing of that outfit?"

"Not a perk. I will build you anything you want - a deck, a closet, a backyard studio. I will set up every piece of tech in this house, but please, please, please... I am begging you, don't ask me to choose clothing for you." 

"Okay... Okay... You don't have to choose clothing for me." 

"Or shoes!!"

"Or shoes. It's okay, love. It's okay, you don't have to." I hold his face in my hands and kiss him.

"Okay?"

"It's all okay."

His breathing has settled a bit. 

I kiss him again. "I'm just going to brush my teeth."

When I come back, David is looking through my closet.

"There are dresses that have green in them." He looks like he's won the lottery.

"Yes, there are."

"I DO remember some of your dresses."

I smile.

"If you ask me to pick between three dresses, I could maybe choose one."

"Only if you want to, love. Only if you want to."

***

By the by... David is the King of Thoughtfulness. Before we married, he had all of Shakespeare's comedies, in their folio editions, bound into hard covers for me, with every other page blank so that I could make acting notes. When I lost my mind as a working new Mom, I arrived home to a house full of lit candles, a glass of wine, a warm bath and a pair of earplugs to wear that night so that I could get a good night's sleep. One Christmas, he presented me with a calendar, in which he had booked us babysitters for 3 months, so that we could have date nights. My husband thinks of making my dreams come true, pretty much constantly. Just don't ask him to choose out clothing for me. ;-)

*David loves Archie Panjabi's character Kalinda Sharma from The Good Wife - mostly he loves her boots.

You'll let me know when I'm elderly, right?

"Yes. I will," says Rissa.

"Thank you."

"You are elderly."

"Runh?"

"Ma, you're showing all the signs."

"I'm 52!"

"Do you, or do you not implement fall prevention measures?"

"Yes, but that's for the ear thing..."

"Is that a bowl of hard candies on the counter?"

"Yes..."

"How many pills do you take each day?"

"Many of those are vitamins!"

"How many are prescriptions?

"Two," I say sullenly.

"What was that?"

"TWO!! I TAKE TWO PRESCRIPTIONS!!!"

"And what else?"

"Iron pills."

"For?"

"Anemia!!"

"Do you have more than one pre-existing condition?" She raises her eyebrows at me.

"Oh for the... YES! But I only have the ear thing because of the thyroid thing!"

"What about migraines?"

"Well, if you're going to count EVERYTHING..."

"Hypoglycemia??" Another eyebrow raise.

"Shut up."

"All signs point to elderly."

"I would just like to say that when I updated my life insurance, that NONE of my conditions stopped me from getting coverage again."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. All my issues? Unless they're heart or lungs related? They mean dick to insurers. So SUCK IT!"

"Is that an early-onset dementia mood swing??"

My delicate frickin' flower

"I'm telling you Rissa, when you're middle-aged, your vulva gets sassy."

Rissa pauses brushing her teeth. "I'm sorry?"

"Your vulva - well at least your labia - they get..."

"What is happening right now?"

"I was wearing those pants without underwear..."

"Ma!"

"I am passing on information that will be useful when YOU are 52 years old."

"About my vulva?"

"Or it might just be your labia. I'm never sure of the distinction. I mean, I know that the labia are the lip bits. Help me out here. You're the nursing student."

Rissa looks like she wants to bang her head on the vanity. "The vulva is the whole crotch area."

"Crotch is the vulva. Got it." I think for a sec. "Crulva."

"Please don't ever say THAT again."

"What? If I make a new word it will forever be clear in my mind."

"Other people's mothers don't share like this."

"But they should! Seriously. You're going to want to know that lace underwear will become the enemy in your 40s and then, when you're 52, you go commando in a pair of 95% polyester / 5% spandex/elastane wide cut pants and your... labia - really it's just the labia - will not be happy with you."

Rissa just looks at me.

"And I used to be able to wear the pretty lacy panties, but now, unless there's a cotton gusset in there with some good acreage, by the end of the day (or night - depending when I wear them) my crulval area is not pleased."

David pokes his head into the bathroom. "Crulval?"

Rissa shudders. "Please DO NOT encourage her."

"Crotch and vulva. The crotch area is the vulva," I say as I brush my teeth.

"Ahhhhhh, I see."

"I'm trying to impart my knowledge of what the female body does..."

"I don't think all female bodies do this," says Rissa.

"Oh, I think they do. You get older and your body gets overly sensitive."

"YOUR body Ma. YOUR body is WAY sensitive."

"I'm going to poll my friends."

"OH. MY. GOD."

"And then you'll know....  Wait! I am going to ask Mor Mor and I will bet you anything that she'll confirm it." 

"I can't see Mor Mor wearing lacy panties."

"Because now she CAN'T."

"Seriously?"

"I'm sure that Mor Mor would still wear lacy panties if she could. She might want to spice it up now and again..."

"ARGH!"

CUT TO: THE NEXT MORNING

"Mor? Can you still wear lacy panties?'

There is a pause on the other end of the phone. "Can I what?"

"If you wear lacy panties or non-cotton panties, do they irritate your lady bits?'

"Well... no, I don't think so."

"No?"

"I've never noticed that."

"I'm talking about a pair of LACY panties - with a very small gusset?"

David snorts from the other room.

"I can't say that it's ever been an issue for me. I mean, I don't wear a lot of lacy panties now, but I do have polyester panties and they don't seem to bother me."

"But they have a BIG cotton gusset right?"

"Well I've never measured it."

"Aw crap. She's right!"

"Who's right?"

"Rissa. She said that my lady bits are just overly sensitive."

"Well that may be the case. Your body IS sensitive. You know Heather, natural fibers are always best. These new fabrics are all well and good, because they're easy to care for, but you can't beat cotton."

"Yeah, I know. These new fabrics, they bite me in the... well, not ass, but they sure as hell irritate my labia!"

"And this is why you called?"

"Yep. Thanks. Love you." I hang up the phone.

Rissa comes down the stairs. "I told you it was just YOUR..."

"Crulva?"

She rolls her eyes. "Last night something struck me. You said you were wearing pants with no underwear."

"Yeah."

"Well don't do that! If you wear underwear you won't get irritated."

"Yes, but those pants are jersey and if I wear cotton panties with them, the pants will be all bunchy and clingy..."

"WEAR cotton thongs! They MAKE cotton thongs!"

Epiphanic. "Yes. Yes, that's perfect. I can do that. Unless my perineum is irritated."

***

Please help me get to the bottom of this.

DIY Nip/Tuck

David and Rissa say that I am not allowed to take up DIY cosmetic surgery. No matter how much I want to. I'd just like to say though, that if my armpits were made up of fabric instead of migrating breast tissue stores, I could put a dart in that shit. 

I am very handy with a needle and thread and excel at following YouTube videos. I'm pretty sure that with some hydrogen peroxide, a shop vac and fishing line I could do some good work. But "because it's flesh and blood with the possibility of infection and death," I'm not allowed to try.  After being my own successful guinea pig, I could offer my APP NT (arm pit pudge nip/tuck) to friends and family. I'd do it as a charitable service for other women of a certain age whose bodies have chosen to metamorphose without their host's permission.

Scratch that - do not try this at home. I just googled it and this was the first thing that came up:

I want to be that body-positive 52 year old with 5 decades of comfortably living in my skin. But instead of reveling, I spend an inordinate amount of time fixated on my extra breasts. I sqwoosh them. I berate them. I feel that they are a beacon to the entire world. I Google "extra weight around middle" and discover that a waist line over 35 inches for a women is a health concern. Oh, for the love of... this is no longer cosmetic! 

Fucking menopause. Its subtitle is literally THE CHANGE OF LIFE. I should know this.

My breasts have converted their now useless milk ducts into even more incredibly bodacious ta-tas?  Huzzah! If I want to stop traffic on King Street, all I've got to do is take a deep breath. Those same boobs that are no longer content to dwell upon my torso and have now snuck across the border into arm pit town?   Give me a sec...  wait... wait... I could hook up small bicycle horns so that when I play with their pulchritude I get a musical interlude!  And... a great new busking act! From which I could make money!  HAH!

Benign moles getting me down? Play connect the dots with all that new skin topography and see how many constellations I have!

To maintain my weight I now need to walk for more than an hour each day and cut more calories, but not so many calories that my body's fight or flight response is triggered?  It's all good! My heart and lungs just LOVE the extra exercise and juggling carbohydrate and caloric math is incredibly helpful to my now failing brain!

When I update my glasses prescription I want a filter so that I can see myself through my daughter's / friends' / husband's eyes. They don't see the extra boobs or the increasing waist line. They see my smile, my vintage skirts with pockets, my me-being-me.

So how about this? I shall focus on my physical health, but not to the detriment of my mental health. I'll walk more, I'll eat things that are good for me, I'll manage my stress by remembering this,

and I won't pick up a scalpel.

I'm not 20 any more.

"OHHHHHHH! OHHHHHHHH GOD!" I moan.

"Heather?"

"Sweet Jesus..."

"You okay in there?"

"I'm good, I'm good." 

David cracks open the bathroom door. "You sure?"

"I did cardio kickboxing yesterday with Rissa."

"Ahhhhhh... not that kind of moaning."

"Yeah."

He winces as I try to walk.

"It's like child birth."

"What?"

"Kickboxing. It's like child birth. I've done this class at least three other times. But somehow, in between sessions, I forget. I forget the decimation."

My mouth drops open to gather more oxygen as I attempt to move my leg. 

Since the pandemic hit, Rissa is back at home and has been doing virtual fitness classes. We've been rocking the  mother-daughter time this way. Cardio Dance, Zen Barre, HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) and Cardio Kickboxing. Rissa is 20. She's an ex-competitive-dancer. She's super fit. I... am none of those things.

Most of the classes, after the initial physical fall-out, I learn not to be a moron. I know NOT to do four sets of eight calf raises TWICE during Zen Barre (1 set with feet together and another with feet shoulder width apart). I do not even try to match the burpee count of the HIIT instructor. With kickboxing? I have selective dementia.

It's because I love kicking. I FUCKING LOVE it.

14 years ago, after a few weeks of watching Rissa and David have fun in taekwondo, I got jealous. In spite of my post-gymnast hip arthritis,  I bought a martial arts uniform and quickly became a yellow belt. Kicking night was revelatory. One of my proudest moments was when I almost kicked Sir Glen through a plate glass window. He'd been unprepared for my leg strength. I'd been unprepared for my leg strength. The fact that he had to widen his stance and engage his core whenever I was next up for push kicks? Still makes me preen.

I'd get so fucking jazzed for kicking night. Primal. Powerful. Playful. This one night, we were doing sprints to warm up across the length of the dojang. Run, run, run, run, run. STOP. Burpee. Run, run, run, run run... I was really giving it. And this, for me, was a big deal. I hate sweating in public. I hate panting in public.  I just generally hate being in a group while I exercise. But my reward was kicking the shit out of things afterward, so I would willingly suffer through the moist crotch and the lank hair during warm up.

We were nearing the end of the sprints. I ran, ran, ran, ran, ran, dropped and did a burpee and then I started running again. Problem was, I wasn't fully vertical. Rissa told me later that I looked like a cross between the Roadrunner and the Coyote. My legs pinwheeled super fast and then I propelled myself into the mat, as if I had an ACME rocket strapped to my back. I separated my left shoulder and David, who'd stayed home that night, got a phone call from Sir Glen.

"Hi David. It's Sir Glen from...."

"What did she do?"

After I finally healed, I never went back to taekwondo. But I've reminisced over it. The kicking part. The surprising people with my leg strength part. The feeling so capable and badass part. I crave that shit. It's just that now, at the age of 52, my body's not so happy when I decide once every three weeks that I want to kick. I'm in pain for three days afterward, tell myself for the next week and a half that I won't do it again, but then Rissa looks at me, raises her eyebrows and says, "Cardio Kickboxing?" and I cave.