Not growth, growthS. Like the ones you and I are getting in places you don't want to discuss? New ones every year? It may be hairs, it may be age spots, but this little essay will focus on: skin tags. TAGS? Who named them TAGS? OK, I guess it is like a tag, but with no price on it...and you don't get a new pair of shoes.
So I go into the doc to get a "weird looking freckle" taken care of with the laser. "While we're at it, can you zap these things, too?" pointing to the little growths on my neck. He said, "Sure. Lean back."
First he puts metal eyewear over my eyes (like the suntan booth). The doc, hovering over me from above my head, says, "OK you'll see a flash." Poof. No pain, all done with the freckle. Eyewear comes off. I'm thinking, "Don't we have to do the little things on my neck?"
Then while sitting there, he leans over with these pinchy scissors, grabs onto one of those little suckers, and says, "You'll feel a little nick."
Then I saw this huge scalpel come over my head towards my jugular, (probably not that big)... and s-l-i-c-e! HOLY $HIT! I was not ready for that, but probably better that I wasn't given time to mentally prep.
He proceeded with the other few growing along my collarbones. So I pretended not to be phased. He finished up, well, everything he could see anyhow. I sat up and said, "How do you get these little things?"
"Oh, (blah, blah, blah, blah)...and people get them along their neck, armpits and under the breast area. Neck looks good...Did we get everything?"
Right then and there I thought to myself, "Dude, you have no idea where I've got these things. And you ain't going near that one growing like a mushroom in a dark place under my boob."
So now I have a beautiful neck sans the mushroom growths. I read online how to remove the things yourself. I'm contemplating surgery in the bathroom ... I think I will hold off on that one for now.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Toot, toot. When you're over 40, there's not much you can do.
Well, I will tell you this little story so you can have a chuckle. But first, I will preface the story by reminiscing about my mom and how she was always talking about gas. Not just gas. But toots. Farts. Yes, those that slip out only when you're at the Estee Lauder counter? Or buying furniture from Jeannie at Webers? Or in the quiet library? Do you remember mom talking about that? Well, she would laugh hysterically if she had what I experienced last week had happen to her.
I have been attending a Pilates class every Monday night. There is a guy (David) who teaches it. He plays this really relaxing music, much like a yoga class, and turns down the lights. There are about 15 women, all ages, laying on mats throughout the room. Last week the instructor wasn't there, so this young bouncy gal was our sub. She did not turn down the lights as much, so you could see everyone, and she played a nature sounds CD.
We got to going about 6:30 last week. About 5 minutes late, this lady walks in, who has been in class before. I will call her Agnes. Now Agnes is on the rather large side, stick legs with a large mid section, probably in her 60s, big shirt, little black spandex.... You get the picture.
If you know anything about Pilates or Yoga, you know it requires a lot of core strength, and you lift your legs up quite a bit and get into some pretty awkward positions. You know where I'm going with this.
We aren't 10 minutes into class and the bouncy instructor says, "Now, ladies let's lift and squeeze!" And out came this sound like someone's fanny was pinched so tight you couldn't pry it apart with a crow bar. But the air got through Agnes's tight cheeks.
I thought, "OK, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, poor woman." As those of us who exercise know how it feels... But it didn't stop. Over and over again, her rear end emitted the most stunning of sounds, all the way up the scale from tenor to treble. Loud, tight, quiet, squeaking, intermittent, single blasts.... all amongst the instructor's nature sounds CD. I thought, "Geez she's gonna need a safety wipe!"
Now if it were me, the second time I broke wind, I'd give up the exercises. I wouldn't have the guts to get up and leave. I'd "act" like I was doing the exercises, but would look like a wounded dog. But no way would I cut it again. Not Agnes. She just proceeded to hoist and roll. I did sneak a peak at her, and she looked defeated.
Pretty soon, after about 20 minutes of this symphony, the smell started to drift. Yes, I was right behind Agnes on my mat, with her cannon pointed at me. I had to hold my breath! Then I got to thinking, "What if everyone else thinks it is me?????????" Then I was mortified. But I assured myself there was no way that not one single person didn't hear what was going on and who was the culprit. I think the bouncy teacher was mortified, but she kept going like a trooper! "OK ladies! Let's reach for our toes!" (Rrrrrrrrrr----iiiipppp!!!!!)
Either Agnes found the muscles to hold it in, I'm not sure, but about a 40 minutes into the class, she finally quit tooting.
Tonight, once again, I will attend the Pilates class. David will probably be back. I can only hope Agnes isn't there. But if she is, I'm moving to the other side of the room so not to be associated with Agnes.
One thing is for sure. I won't be eating any chili before I go to class tonight.
I have been attending a Pilates class every Monday night. There is a guy (David) who teaches it. He plays this really relaxing music, much like a yoga class, and turns down the lights. There are about 15 women, all ages, laying on mats throughout the room. Last week the instructor wasn't there, so this young bouncy gal was our sub. She did not turn down the lights as much, so you could see everyone, and she played a nature sounds CD.
We got to going about 6:30 last week. About 5 minutes late, this lady walks in, who has been in class before. I will call her Agnes. Now Agnes is on the rather large side, stick legs with a large mid section, probably in her 60s, big shirt, little black spandex.... You get the picture.
If you know anything about Pilates or Yoga, you know it requires a lot of core strength, and you lift your legs up quite a bit and get into some pretty awkward positions. You know where I'm going with this.
We aren't 10 minutes into class and the bouncy instructor says, "Now, ladies let's lift and squeeze!" And out came this sound like someone's fanny was pinched so tight you couldn't pry it apart with a crow bar. But the air got through Agnes's tight cheeks.
I thought, "OK, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, poor woman." As those of us who exercise know how it feels... But it didn't stop. Over and over again, her rear end emitted the most stunning of sounds, all the way up the scale from tenor to treble. Loud, tight, quiet, squeaking, intermittent, single blasts.... all amongst the instructor's nature sounds CD. I thought, "Geez she's gonna need a safety wipe!"
Now if it were me, the second time I broke wind, I'd give up the exercises. I wouldn't have the guts to get up and leave. I'd "act" like I was doing the exercises, but would look like a wounded dog. But no way would I cut it again. Not Agnes. She just proceeded to hoist and roll. I did sneak a peak at her, and she looked defeated.
Pretty soon, after about 20 minutes of this symphony, the smell started to drift. Yes, I was right behind Agnes on my mat, with her cannon pointed at me. I had to hold my breath! Then I got to thinking, "What if everyone else thinks it is me?????????" Then I was mortified. But I assured myself there was no way that not one single person didn't hear what was going on and who was the culprit. I think the bouncy teacher was mortified, but she kept going like a trooper! "OK ladies! Let's reach for our toes!" (Rrrrrrrrrr----iiiipppp!!!!!)
Either Agnes found the muscles to hold it in, I'm not sure, but about a 40 minutes into the class, she finally quit tooting.
Tonight, once again, I will attend the Pilates class. David will probably be back. I can only hope Agnes isn't there. But if she is, I'm moving to the other side of the room so not to be associated with Agnes.
One thing is for sure. I won't be eating any chili before I go to class tonight.
Phooey On Mirrors
Well, tonight I spent quite a pretty penny on .... a mirror. Now I'm sure you could have warned me that an 8X magnifying mirror with three light settings (low/medium/bright) perhaps wasn't the best choice for a 40-something woman... and that I should have gone for the small hand-held with softer light.
However, reason for purchasing is that not too long ago, I was in another bathroom, actually in the ritzy Omni Hotel, where the mirror was of higher quality and a slightly closer view. I was astonished that when peering into the ritzy mirror that it shone back the fact that I needed a serious plucking. (and was embarrassed that two days prior I had had the doctor look at a freckle on my forehead -- just to check it out -- and I'm sure he saw that I looked like Andy Rooney: http://www.aikenspro.com/photo_blog/archives/rooney1.jpg)
ANYHOW... I decided to buy the high-dollar mirror so that I could actually SEE myself when I apply my make-up and perform other minor surgeries.
I brought home my very expensive mirror, set it up in the bathroom, turned the light on BRIGHT, and peered in... To which I let out a scream... "I HAVE A MOUSTACHE!"
Cameron came running. "Mom, you do not have a moustache." I said, "Yes I do. Grandma Weiss had a black moustache and now I have one!" I made him look, however, due to the angle of the magnification, he couldn't see the hairy caterpillar.
I shrieked, grabbed the tweezers and tried to yank those buggers out. OUCH! I wasn't very successful. I just kept peering into the mirror, inspecting the true condition of my skin, the nose hairs, the large pores, etc. etc. THEN, I SAW THEM. Three black hairs growing out of my chin. No, not at the bottom, between the lower lip and above the chin... I'm going to look like Howie Mandel! (http://www.buddytv.com/articles/Image/Howie-Mandel-festival.jpg)
So, the moral of this story is... screw the $75 dollar mirror. I was fine seeing myself from two feet back. I'll live with the Andy Rooney eyebrows, and I've realized, when you're a woman over 40, ignorance is bliss.
However, reason for purchasing is that not too long ago, I was in another bathroom, actually in the ritzy Omni Hotel, where the mirror was of higher quality and a slightly closer view. I was astonished that when peering into the ritzy mirror that it shone back the fact that I needed a serious plucking. (and was embarrassed that two days prior I had had the doctor look at a freckle on my forehead -- just to check it out -- and I'm sure he saw that I looked like Andy Rooney: http://www.aikenspro.com/photo_blog/archives/rooney1.jpg)
ANYHOW... I decided to buy the high-dollar mirror so that I could actually SEE myself when I apply my make-up and perform other minor surgeries.
I brought home my very expensive mirror, set it up in the bathroom, turned the light on BRIGHT, and peered in... To which I let out a scream... "I HAVE A MOUSTACHE!"
Cameron came running. "Mom, you do not have a moustache." I said, "Yes I do. Grandma Weiss had a black moustache and now I have one!" I made him look, however, due to the angle of the magnification, he couldn't see the hairy caterpillar.
I shrieked, grabbed the tweezers and tried to yank those buggers out. OUCH! I wasn't very successful. I just kept peering into the mirror, inspecting the true condition of my skin, the nose hairs, the large pores, etc. etc. THEN, I SAW THEM. Three black hairs growing out of my chin. No, not at the bottom, between the lower lip and above the chin... I'm going to look like Howie Mandel! (http://www.buddytv.com/articles/Image/Howie-Mandel-festival.jpg)
So, the moral of this story is... screw the $75 dollar mirror. I was fine seeing myself from two feet back. I'll live with the Andy Rooney eyebrows, and I've realized, when you're a woman over 40, ignorance is bliss.
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