Wednesday, May 22, 2013

My ‘Stache, My ‘Stache, My Lovely Lady-‘Stache

I think the very best thing about getting older is becoming completely comfortable in your own skin. 

Popeye the Sailorman said it best: “I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam”. 

I’m not a great housekeeper, I’m never going to love working out, and I curse too much.

I also will never look you in the eye and utter the words: “No thank you, one glass is enough”.

If I do, know that I am lying and either a.) plan to drink a second glass somewhere else when we part ways or b.) already took a few sips somewhere else before I got to you.

Good and bad, these and other things simply make me who I am and life is so much easier now that I just accept them.

While passing 40 has brought new comforts, it has also brought other things.  Like a growing desire but lessening ability to sleep, the pain in my lower back that just keeps coming back, and gravity.  I know gravity has always been there but it used to ignore my rear end.

And of course there is my current arch-nemesis: the rogue facial hair, a.k.a: she-whisker.   

About a week ago, I went for a long, morning walk with a newish-old friend, a Beautiful Friend, who is in escrow on a new home.  Now this friend has had quite a year. She has battled both colon and breast cancer (in her mind only/every test came back benign) and been homeless (also in her mind).  She seems to have found her happy ending though.  And lucky for me it’s about five miles from where I live AND it has a pool.  I couldn’t be happier for her (or me).

“I’m going to go drive by my house now,” she told me after we finished our walk.

“I want to come!” I told her and climbed into her car.   

We continued to gab away about contingencies being lifted, impending inspections and appraisals - the various boxes that need to be checked to close a real estate transaction; when suddenly she stopped cold:

“Is that thing attached?” She practically screamed at me.

“What?” I hurriedly flipped down the mirror in front of the passenger seat and it took me all of 1.5 seconds to see what was “attached” above my upper lip, adjacent to my left nostril. 

Then, defiantly: “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is attached.”

“It” was in reference to the long, black hair that I prayed had somehow sprouted and grown to its current length (probably could have wrapped it around my head three times) during our short, car-ride together.

I continued to look at it in the mirror, imagining all the people I had spoken to with this freakin’ lumberjack-whisker practically smacking them in the face!

The teachers.

The clients.

The baristas.

The checkers.

The boys’ music teacher.

Team parents in the little league stands. 


“How long you planning on keeping that thing?”  My friend was enjoying this a little too much.  

“Shut up!  Do you have any tweezers?” 

“Tweezers?  In my car?”  She laughed.

“Screw you!”

I went about the business of trying to pull the whisker out between my thumb and forefinger (yes, I could get a good grip on it - it was that long!)

“Got it!”  I held my whisker out triumphantly.

“Are you going to keep it for your scrap book?”  This friend of mine was far less smug when she was living in a cardboard box battling pretend cancer.

“No.”  I flicked it into the abyss of her new car’s black interior.  “You can have it.  After all, you found it!!”

Some advice I clearly need to heed :

A six-minute trip down memory lane:

It's not a look that I could necessarily pull off but it's a look, nonetheless.