Recommended wine for today’s entry: Here’s another of the wines from our tasting party: Domaine Trois Freres, a French chardonnay. Notes from our group included: clear, light color; citrusy, lemon scent; lemon, grapefruit, light taste. This wine may appeal more to a fan of a light sauvignon blanc than a fan of a full-bodied chardonnay. It’s very light and refreshing.
I used to dread going to the doctor for my annual checkup more than anything in the world. I didn’t want him to see me naked.
But I’ve grown up and gotten over that. You know what? He makes like $300 for seeing me naked for 10 minutes. He should have to endure that.
Now that I’m older, there’s something I hate WAY worse than the doctor seeing me naked: ME seeing me naked.
And me in a swimsuit may be the alternative to waterboarding.
But I’m headed to Florida next week for a girls’ getaway, so I couldn’t dodge swimsuit shopping anymore. I tried on one of my old suits, and it fits, but it’s not a pretty picture.
Ha! I thought. I know what’s wrong! It’s just because I have absolutely no skin tone, unless you count the tint around my rapidly surfacing varicose veins or the blue, ropy veins gracing my hands. Otherwise, I look like a half-melted marshmallow.
Knowing that today I would HAVE to try on suits and I’d have to open my eyes, I went to a tanning bed last night. It is going to have to be #2 on the Places I Totally Make a Spaz of Myself list. Getting a pedicure remains #1, only because at least in the tanning bed I have my own room.
It took me about a half hour to debate the intricate pricing structure, which included, I believe, one lease-to-own option and one equity-ownership option. Anyway, there was an also-marshmallowy guy who was EVEN OLDER THAN ME who was waiting patiently (at first) to get assigned a fryer.
He didn’t get perturbed until I tore out a deposit slip and started setting up models to see how many times I would need to use the tanning bed, and for how many months, to make it worth the $38 “I’m out” fee if I decided to do the unlimited monthly plan.
Then I had to smell every single bottle of the array of lotions they sell. After about four, he was exhaling really loudly, like a bull before it charges. Then I narrowed it to two, one that smelled like pear and one that smelled like SweetTarts. Now he was pacing and getting even whiter, if that was possible. My first inclination was to ask him to sniff them, then shoot one of the gloppy substances directly up his left nostril. But I didn’t.
“Sorry,” I said in my fake-as-hell sweet voice. “I’m a newbie.”
“Oh, no problem,” he said, shuffling his feet. “You can’t come here to be in a hurry.”
Well, that sentence made no sense, but by then we were having trouble getting the little fingerprint machine to register my print. She said it was probably because I didn’t have enough oils in my body, which is great, because I was about to go bake any remaining moisture out, leaving, I presume, some very, very dry wrinkles.
Finally registered, she took me to my room and showed me how to use the machine/coffin/toaster oven. I was pretty sure I could handle it. The rooms were all open at the top, I guess so that air circulated well. I figured that if one of the machines set its tenant afire, the emergency workers could follow the source of smoke.
Anyway, I heard my buddy from the lobby go into the room next door.
I had 7 minutes to undress, use my SweetTart lotion, don my little eye guards and shut the lid before the machine turned on. Seven minutes? I thought with a smug smirk, I can be in there in three.
And I was comfortably settled in there after a mere 5 minutes, eyewear in place, and I almost turned the bed on — but oops! I was still wearing my argyle socks with my swimsuit. So I opened the lid, sat up and removed my socks. Still a minute early. Lie down, close the top…Wait! I didn’t turn on the radio!
So I took my goggles off, lifted the lid and rolled over to turn on the radio by my head. Of course, they couldn’t have a very simple radio — oh no. They had a small replica of an alien spacecraft, complete with about 15 different controls. After pushing virtually every button, I somehow got country music started. Ahh. This is going to be so relaxing.
Just as I rolled back over to lie on my back, staring straight at the top, the lights FLASH TO LIFE and I think I will see these black spots until late in the spring.
Finally relaxed, I started to drift off almost immediately (it’s a gift). But then the radio went off … just for a second … that’s OK, I’m s-o-o tired … SLOW RIDE, TAKE IT EASY … and I mean REALLY, REALLY loud. So I sat up really quickly to turn it down so as not to disturb my nice friend from the lobby and cracked my head on the top, which I forgot to open this go-around.
But luckily the spaceship had shut up again, so I nestled back in and calmed down … started to drift … AND ITS JUST TOO BAD, YOU’VE ALREADY HAD, THE BEST YEARS, THE BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE … REALLY, REALLY loud.
How could Kellie Pickler see me?
So I threw open the lid and hit all 15 buttons until I was sure the radio was off. (Apparently one of those buttons says SEEK) Just as I got situated again, there was a loud beep! beep!beep! and the machine shut off.
And just to close the circle, yes, I went swimsuit shopping today. In a nutshell, here is what transpired:
From the front, I was OK with the tankini that offered adequate coverage and tanning potential. The style, color and pattern, by age 49, take a WAY backseat to adequate coverage.
Then I turned around and let out an audible gasp.
Hot chick who makes minimum wage but does the job so she can laugh at people like me: Knock-knock-knock. Is everything OK?
Me, in a small voice: Um, I’m fine…my butt just scared me.
Anyway, once I got everything in its place and decided on a purchase, I ran out of there and vowed to enjoy my vacation regardless of my social ineptitude and saggy rear.
I always wondered why older people drank on the beach. Now I think I’ve got it.