I am a Sun Goddess No More

Dear 16 year Annie,

It's me, Annie.  Thirty-seven year old , Annie, that is.

I am here from the future to beg you, plead with you,  and bargain with you.

Please.

Wear sunscreen.

No.  Do not roll your eyes.  I am not kidding.


You see, dear 16 year old self, I just got back from the dermatologist's office.  And, let me tell you girl, it was not fun.  In fact, it was damn sobering.

First,  we have been diagnosed with adult acne, and that itself is hard to swallow.  Because in its simplest form it means that a) we are old and b) we have pimples.  My skin is no longer the golden hued smooth skin that you have now.  It has bumps and creases and when my hormones are raging, my skin downright hurts. 

But that is not the worst, my dear.

Nope.

That's not it.

The worst was when the dermatologist used her blindingly white light to inspect our face.  And, when she happened upon our age spot on our cheek, she said, "This," and she stopped to touch the spot.  "This HAS to come off."

At first, I was tickled.  Remove my age spot, make me look younger?  Great!

But then the doc calmly explained, "Annie.  It could turn into melanoma.  It has gotten bigger and it needs to come off, as a precaution."

I was no longer smiling (or breathing for that matter) . . . and you shouldn't be either.

So that good doctor took off that age spot with her -400 degree concentrated air thingy, and I tried to remember to breathe as I felt every millimeter of my stinging flesh.

And for the next few weeks, I have a big mole-like, charred flesh, Scarlet letter-like reminder that I (like you are now) was once a sun goddess.

And despite my joking, and my self comparison to the mole lady from Uncle Buck, this is not funny, my girl.



nickypapers.com and google images



It is scary . . . and not worth it.

And, if it meant that I would never have to have melanoma or any other skin cancer, if it meant that I could tell you and all those young girls out there that baking in the sun could equal cancer,  I would  and will wear this ugly skin badge loudly and proudly.

But, it doesn't.  There are no guarantees. 

There is, however, prevention.

So, wear that sunscreen, Annie.  Take it from your older, more wrinkly self.

You are worth it.

Love,
Annie

Up in Arms or Embracing My Inner Grandma

As Ethan hopped out of the car on his way to kindergarten,  I ethusiastically waved goodbye.   Just then, something caught the corner of my eye.

"Did you see that, Ellerie?"  I asked my almost three year old in the backseat.

"What Mommy?"  she replied.

"Oh nothing, "I said.

I knew that I had seen something, but as my eyes scanned the front passenger seat of my van,  I didn't detect anything out of the ordinary.  Not one to worry, I shrugged it off, and I went on my way.

But, as I pulled away from the curb to drive back home,  I spied one of my girlfriends pushing a stroller on the sidewalk.  I rolled down the window, shouted a "Hey there!", and once again, waved enthusiastically.

And . . . I saw it again.  

There it was!  A flash of tan.  When I waved.  And with a sinking feeling, I instantly knew what it was.

It was me.

It was my arm.

Flapping . . .as I waved.

                                                                               Image from www.realself.com

After I recovered from the horror of discovering that I now have my grandma's arms,  I booked myself a session at the gym with a trainer.

That's right.

I'm not succumbing to my grandma arms without a fight.

(Cue Rocky music.)

Tricep dips, here I come!

Back to Blogging . . . 36 . . .24 . . .36?!?

The girls over at SITS are sponsoring a Back to Blogging event this week.  I seriously meant to participate yesterday,  but,  being that it was Monday and that I am currently doped up on allergy meds in the hope that I do not cut off my own drippy nose, I forgot.  Forgive me.  Today, though, the nose is not dripping (as much), and as I sit here with a tissue stuck up my nostrils so that I do not drip on my laptop, I thought that I would participate. 

I know.

I know. 

You're welcome.

Today's prompt was to repost a post that you wish more people had paid attention to.  So here goes . . .
This post was originally written in early November of 2009, after my 36th birthday.  And, as I  come up on my 37th(GULP!) birthday, I think that it still rings very true.


36 . . . 24 . . .36????

My birthday was on Saturday.

 I am officially now 36.  (Thank you for asking!)

And while I am not that phased by the passing of another year, I am phased by the fact that I am no longer in the 24-35 year old demographic.  Nope.  I am now in the 36-45 year old portion of the population.  Just one, tiny 1/4 of an inch separates the two check-off boxes on official paperwork, but in reality, I am finding that these two boxes are worlds apart.

For instance, at 24, it was an accomplishment to hold my pee during a rowdy night of beer drinking with my friends.  We teased each other about "breaking the seal".  No one. No one wanted to be the first to break her pee seal, because we all knew what would inevitably follow.  Once a girl relieved her bladder, she would be back and forth to the bathroom for the rest of the evening.  At 24, I could hold my bladder like a champ!

At 36 . . . not so much.

At 36, I am lucky if my bladder holds my first cup of morning coffee, let alone a night of beer.  In fact, the old girl seems to be rebelling at me at any chance.  If I sneeze, I pee.  If I cough, I pee.  If I laugh, you guessed it, I pee.

I am heading towards the Depends aisle in the grocery store, my friends.  

This.  This does not make me happy.

At 24, I got my eyebrows waxed regularly, at a salon, by a professional.

At 36, I wax my own eyebrows.  Consequently, I have burned the skin between my eyes more than once.  At 36,  not only do I have to wax my brows, I also have to wax my lip . . . a duty that I had once relegated to the ranks of my old and hairy italian aunts.  Apparently, at 36, I am now part of those ranks.  I carry a pair of tweezers with me at all times, and I pluck stray hairs in the car while I am stopped at red lights.  It seems that the magnified rearview mirror is the only place that I can see those pesky hairs that pop up!

At 24, I colored my hair for a change of pace.

At 36, I color my hair for necessity.  While I have very few grays (hooray!), I am not above plucking out a stray gray.  And now that sharpie markers come in so many different colors, I have and will continue to use a sharpie to color in a strand or two of offensive color.  I love my sharpie marker!!

At 24, I had no idea about who I wanted to be, or, for that matter, who I was at that moment.

At 36, I am comfortable being me.  I love my life of wife, mom, teacher, tutor, instructor, friend, laugher, lover and blogger.  My life is full of daily silliness, laughs and hugs.  I never knew I wanted to be a stay at home mom with 3 kiddies, but I wouldn't change it for the world.  I am blessed!

Because at 36,  my boobs may be way lower than they were at 24, but there are better things than perky boobs.  

I am wiser.

I am more appreciative.

I am thankful.

So, I don't mind checking off that 36-45 box in the slightest. . .

But, I won't take plastic surgery off the table either!

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So there you have it!  My take on aging.  What do you think?
Now go on and visit the sponsors of the SITS girls Back to Blogging event  They are the Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.  Go on!  Go!!

Just Call Me a Raisin -or otherwise titled- Can I Iron the Wrinkles Out of My Skin?

Last night hubs and I went out on a date.  I wore an actual dress, and I put on actual makeup. 

I know.  I know.

The man is lucky!

Anyways, while I was primping in the mirror, I found a rather large unruly grey hair right near my ear in my short do.  Ay yi yi!  Upon finding the grey, I did the only thing that I could.

I screamed.

No.  Seriously.  I did not scream, although I wanted to.  Instead, I picked up my tweezers and plucked that offensive baby right out of my head.

Feeling a bit triumphant, I related the story to hubs.  Apparently, E was eavesdropping, and his response?

"Well mom,  you are getting old,  "  he paused and then said, " . .  . and wrinkly."

Wrinkly?

Really???

I have yet to discover a quick fix for wrinkles.  That is unless any of you out there happen to be a plastic surgeon that wants to give away free samples of Botox?

No?

Nuts!


And in honor of my wrinkles, I leave you with this youtube gem . . .