Tag Archives: self help

There Goes the Villa

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Monday morning traffic isn’t so bad if you leave at the right time.  Even better if you have a reverse commute from the city to the suburbs.  I like to start the ride with some Deepak Chopra wisdom, before switching quickly to the Erasure station on Pandora. Because in pursuing your own pure joy, you trigger a chain of events that will eventually create happiness for the whole world – I think the Dalai Lama said that.  Or maybe my friend after too much wine.  Anyway, what says joy better than a reverbing synthesizer?

On that particular day I even have time to sit at the red light and pull down the mirror to check my hair.  Gee, my hair looks terrific!  And I hadn’t even noticed.  I got my hair done two days ago.  I am suddenly sick to my stomach at the realization that I have wasted a solid forty-eight hours of good hair time.  All because ninety percent of my attention has been sucked up by a kid.  That leaves ten percent for everything else, including husband, pudgy cat and the redhead basset.

Yes, I now have a kid.  But I am not going to be writing about parenting.  Or the joys of children.  Or the maternal instinct swooping in to save the day.  First and foremost, this is a blog about fretting.  I hope I’ll still have the wherewithal to do it gracefully, but one never knows how these things turn out.

There are plastic toys in my living room.  Every morning my dining table seems to have a light film of last night’s dinner on it.  I am holding slimy wet rags all day long.  Humans I have just met ask me if I love mothering.  I forget things constantly, except my grudges.

So there will clearly be plenty to challenge my anxiety in new and exciting ways.  Just ahead we have the “I don’t eat red food” years, followed by the awkward light acne years.  Then the blissful teenage years, right before the college tuition scramble where I give up my Portuguese villa fund, sort of willingly.  Nerves, get ready to enjoy this journey of self-discovery.  And try to look poised, please.

 

Step by step

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Me: “Do you want to pick up the takeout now, or shall we do it in an hour?”

My mother: “Why do you have zits on your face?”

And that, my friends, is how you silence an adult.

I was as mortified as any fourteen year-old.  I could have delivered a million excuses: changing seasons; PMS or early menopause; E. coli-infested chocolate; the dog licked my face.  But silence seemed a more dignified response.

I suspected I would rush home after dinner and desperately pound the keyboard Googling “good skin gone bad.”  But in my newfound quest to embrace acceptance and its colleagues (non-judgment, self-love, positive thoughts, et al.), I let it go.  Instead of focusing on selfish, superficial worries that would hopefully vanish in a few weeks, I would concentrate on solving bigger problems – afflictions that had plagued generations of women and many men, at a global level without discrimination. Afflictions like cellulite.

I did my research, and a few days later, a French company’s brainchild arrived at my door.  When in doubt, always go French.  There is zero probability they will prescribe heavy exercise or fat-free living.  I unraveled the instructions with excitement.  One may think there isn’t much to learn about applying creams.  But which finger should you use?  Is it a circular motion, or more oval?  Tapping or light massage?  Clock-wise?  I don’t like to chance it.

The instructions came in six language versions, two of them Asian ones.  This was an excellent sign.  If the ladies of Tokyo and Beijing were buying this up, it had to deliver.

There were eight illustrations of a lovely naked woman with her hair in a perfect ballerina bun.  First, sit on the floor, back straight up against a wall, with legs outstretched – easily done.  And then I stopped understanding. For in the next picture, the young woman appeared to be going into labor, as she sat with knees bent, pushing apart her thighs with her hands.  And there were arrows shooting up the sides of her legs.  And, wait, was she now lying on the floor shoving her pelvis up into the air?  Rosemary’s cellulite baby.

The written portion offered little help, with its multi-step approach (phase 2, part 1, zone 3), and incremental stretches for those “accustomed to exercise.”  I tried to muddle through the other language versions, but all were as clear as mud. I felt dejected as I set the instructions down.  I would never complete the “natural draining process,” or have “refined buttocks.”

Alone and scared, I tried to find some glimmer of hope.  I sat on the bed and opened up a blank page on my laptop; I typed the number 1.  I find lists to be very comforting.  And slowly the letters flowed from my fingers onto the screen: 1. Fine greasy hair 2. Callouses and/or corns 3. Ashy knees.

There were many more global maladies out there for me to solve.

Deepak Chopra and Me

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Over the past few weeks I had some time off from my routine due to a small medical procedure.  The result was ample time for contemplation, and a more philosophical view of the world.  It started when a dear friend gave me critical advice for the hospital stay: do not neglect your looks.  A simple yet powerful statement.

So being a classic follower, I quickly made plans for hair styling, nails, and waxing (admittedly necessary) before my medical appointment.  I also added to my hospital bag of essentials a cheery mauve lip gloss, and my cream eyeliner that definitely opened up my eyes.  Take action, don’t sit on the sidelines.

As the big day approached, my caring partner offered me the chance for a weekend getaway.  But it would conflict with my aesthetic appointments.  Pretty brazen of him.  Quality time with the most important person in my life vs. the right shade of honey highlights, and a slight trim of the dead ends?  Was I a Clooney or a Kardashian?  Would I ever admit any link with the latter?  So I embraced the trip to New York, and tried not to stare too wistfully at the nail salons at every corner.  When faced with dilemmas, the Clooney vs. Kardashian test can bring clarity and vision.

Soon enough, the countdown to hospital began.  With only a few hours left, I headed with determination into my bathroom.  I didn’t see any neck trauma-inducing basins with scalding water shooting into my ears; or even a blow dryer.  I eyed my tools: orange blossom shampoo and a barely there blob of conditioner – at least it was deep conditioning.  So, wash, rinse, coat, rinse, rub head with towel, and call it a night.  Be determined, but flexible along the journey.

That night, I dreamt of walking through the city streets at dusk, surrounded by the crisp fall air.  My friend suggests we go for an energetic fitness walk.  I decline firmly, and repackage the outing into a foray to our corner bar.  All I had to do was choose words from the heart that were universal: “I am having a good hair day.”  The kind of day you do not waste on trees and buildings, but impart instead on as many humans as possible.  For you never know when the next one may arrive.  Life is short.

So, when all was said and done at the hospital, I woke up in my room groggy and in pain.  Two nurses entered to help me shuffle across the floor to the bathroom.  One of them laid out a hulking adult diaper-underwear ensemble.  The neck of my gown had a trail of drool on it, leading back to my very own mouth.  A mouth that had zero interest in lip gloss, no matter how cheery it was.  But gee, my hair smelled terrific!  And more often than not, that is good enough.