The Good Kind

I adore the sun, I live for the beach, and I am a redhead. As a child, one of the first scents that I recall was Sundown Sun lotion. It was a white bottle with a crude illustration of the setting sun.  I hated that shit, it smelled bad, and it stung when it got in my eyes. My poor mother would spend at least 10 minutes painting me with the white sticky stuff while I complained.

Fast forward several years, the lotion smelled better and I still religiously applied, just not as carefully. One trip to Cancun with my girlfriends I made the mistake of taking a few shots before applying the SPF. I covered my whole body so well…except for my entire right leg.  Do not drink before applying.

I have been going every six months to the dermatologist for a skin check and assistance with adult acne. (thank you 40) Last month, my dermatologist took one look at me, asked me to sit down and quickly biopsied a tiny little bump near the corner of my eye. I tried not to think about it while I awaited the results.  I saw the caller ID flash my doctor’s name and I answered.  The chipper nurse on the other line said she had some news, but I shouldn’t be overly concerned.  I have a basal cell carcinoma, the “good kind” of cancer next to my eye. 

This Wednesday, I will have Mohs surgery followed by reconstructive surgery. I wish I could say, I am taking this in stride, but I am freaking out. I am vain, and this is my face. I am the girl that never got contacts because I can’t touch my eye. I am the girl that has yet to be able to get through a glaucoma test without a full on panic attack. I am the girl that still can’t do eye drops without hyperventilating. I am the lucky girl with the “good kind” of Cancer, and I am scared.

Afternoon Shadow

Groupons are evil. I see one and think, I should try that, it is such a good deal! I have done acupuncture, facials, pedicures, and massages thanks to Groupon. Some have been great, some have been strange. Several months ago, I saw a Groupon for "One dermaplaning treatment with a hydrating or rejuvenating mask. Dermaplaning treatments exfoliate the skin (without down time) and remove peach fuzz." They had me at removing peach fuzz. The older I get, the more fuzz I get.   I wanted to do something about it before I had to brush my face.  Because I am brilliant, I didn't really research what the dermaplaning entails.

I  changed into a soft comfortable rope, climbed under a snugly blanket. Relaxed, as the gal cleansed, massaged, and moisturized my face. It was blissful until she said, "Now we are going to complete the dermaplaning". I was fine until she pulled out a butter knife looking razor and shaved my entire face.  My forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my upper lip... She worked extra hard on my newly acquired chin hairs. I was assured that it is a myth that it will grow back thicker and darker. My face was glowing, it felt so smooth...

I am a week out from the appointment, and I can't stop touching my face.  Not because it is smooth, but because I detect a bit of stubble on my cheeks.   What?  Now I know, dermaplaning is a nicer way of saying close shave. For a gal who wears a swim dress to avoid extra maintenance...this is devastating.   Now do I keep shaving my face or do I let it grow?  When does it stop feeling like a prickly mistake?  I blame Groupon, well it is easier then blaming myself for not researching the word dermaplaning. If you see me out, please don't mention my afternoon shadow, please?

That Kid

I am the mother of "that kid", that creative, brilliant kid.  "That kid" with so many ideas zooming around in her brain .  "That kid" can throw her head back and belly laugh.  "That kid"is kind, sweet, and loving. 

"That kid" loves to draw anatomically correct people.  "That kid" can do an impersonation of Elaine dancing from Seinfeld without trying.  "That kid" pushes me to my limit.  "That kid" is mine and I wouldn't have it any other way because I love that kid.

                                                                                                                    Circa 2009

Soundtrack

 “You can’t make me”

“Whatever Mom”

“You are so mean”

“It’s not fair!”

“Honey, where is the soap?”

“The car is a mess”

“I have no more clean socks”

“I think you are overreacting”

Always running behind, feeling guilty…until

I shimmy into my yoga pants, pull them up…but not too high.  Bend over to check my panty line.  Yank down my sports bra, shove the girls together, throw on a tank top and get into the car.   NPR is blaring, water bottle precariously teetering in the cup holder.  I whip the swagger wagon into a compact parking space with ease, throwing the car into park.  I rummage around the floorboard until I locate a discarded ponytail holder with a moist cheerio clinging to it.  Grabbing my water, I slam the car door closed and attempt to lock the door.  No keys.  Pawing through my purse, avoiding a sticky lollypop stick and a crusty tissue I search for my keys only to realize I have tossed them into the passenger seat.  Why am I so brilliant?  I close the car door again, attempting to shove my hair into a messy bun.   The clock is ticking…

Stumbling up the stairs, slightly out of breath I walk into my happy place.  The humid air is tinged with the ripe smell of sweat.  I stand in my spot, facing the mirror and am berated by my thoughts.   “I should really wear make up.  I hate my thighs.  Do I have teacher arm jiggle?   What am I making for dinner?  What do need at HEB?  If I look down I have a triple chin.”

Then I hear it… “It’s Britney Bitch”.  My hips sway back and forth waiting for my instructor to begin.  With each pelvis thrust, chest pump, cabbage patch, and Roger Rabbit my mind lets go.  I am transformed into a fly girl, oozing with sex appeal, and confidence.  I start to twerk, bouncing my booty. I am free from the pressure of attempting to be supermom.  The only pressure that I feel is my spandex fighting to contain my sweet jiggle.   This is where I feel whole, shaking it on the dance floor.  This is my therapy.

The soundtrack of my life is not just “I’m a little teapot”, or the high pitched whine demanding snacks, it is Pit Bull and the pulsating beat of Drop it Low.   I can make a mean Skinnytaste recipe, “Elsa” braid my daughter’s hair, and shake that thang.  There is more to me than what you see.  This mama can “Roar".