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Who
Stole my Lips?
It happened overnight, I swear. One day my lower lip was a
plump, succulent strawberry ripe for the plucking. The next day,
a withered leaf hanging on for dear life.
Here’s how I discovered this atrocity: I peered into the mirror
and noticed this whitish line, or ridge, traveling just below
the bottom of my bottom lip. What was this?
Back to the looking glass, I squinted and used my fingernails to
gently pull down my lower lip, exposing 1/16 inch of the
purplish pink skin that I had been accustomed to painting for 50
years.
And there it was: my lip has receded.
“So this is what the lip injections are all about,” I mused.
“Now I’ll have to start praying to the Botox fairy to ‘Fill ‘er
up!”
This could be a problem, though. First of all, one mistake and
you could end up looking like Goldie Hawn did until she regained
her senses and had her comical lips deflated. But I’ll be damned
if I’m going to end up looking like Mary Tyler Moore, either.
Her lips are so thin they’re clownish and her grins resemble the
death grimace (I’d swear the word rictus fits here but my spell
checker says no and I can’t find it in the dictionary or
thesaurus – help me!). Actually, I haven’t seen a photo of her
in a few years and she’s probably already remedied that. I’m
sure she’ll let me know.
Then there’s the financial factor. I’m broke. And, oh, of course
the pain factor. I’m a wuss.
All in all, I take care of the thinning lip factor by etching my
lip liner where my lips used to be. And while it doesn’t look
entirely natural, it’s a sight better than no lips at all.
The problem here is that my lips are getting so light that I
will soon have no lip line to trace. Old age bleaches you out,
you know. Maybe I can get just the outline of my lips tattooed
and look like Dolly Parton: dark liner on the outside, light
lipstick on the inside. Like a Hostess Ho-Ho.
Or maybe I’ll just quit giving lip service to this horror and
age gracefully, which is an oxymoron if ever there was one . . .
Post Car Crash: Riding the Edge
A near death experience (NDE) can be the most liberating thing.
Limning the edge of obliteration can be intoxicating. It makes
us so aware of our aliveness. Like shadows on sunshine, death
illuminates life.
Now I understand people who climb Half Dome or Mount Everest.
Now I understand Sean Tucker, possibly the best aerobatic/stunt
flyer in the world (whose story just happens to appear in my
book StarWords).
The last time I felt this way was after mother’s death.
Paralleling my grief was the remarkable relief of knowing that
the worst thing that could possibly happen had happened. And I
survived it.
A few months later I returned to my ho-hum, autopilot
consciousness of daily existence. However, the experience was
not lost. It had pushed my spiritual growth up a notch.
All living things fight to live, live, live. Even sperm – think
about it! What are the odds that one of those suckers “takes”
with an ovum and human growth begins.
I mean, even bugs fight like crazy to live. Get eye level with
them in your garden and observe. I will move on, so as not to
become macabre and, besides, I don’t know how this really fits
in.
What I was saying is: the person who finally accepts death and
is ready to die, is ready to live. And the gol’darn (mom was
fond of saying that) bummer is that we don’t usually come to
this enlightenment until we’re old.
But, oh, the ride! When we stop fearing death there is NOTHING
to stop us from confronting a mean boss, bungee jumping, public
speaking, etc. The WORST thing that can happen is that you’ll
die and since you’re not longer afraid of that, then, WHOOPEEE!
Spend your money. Dance. Tell someone you love/hate them.
OK. That was mean. And I’ll tell what my crash has done for me:
I feel more kindly toward people because life is so fragile. And
we’re all doing the best we can, really, given our situation and
history and genes. And because you can’t (yet) really get into
someone’s head or skin, you can never really judge their
behavior.
Oh, I’m beginning to sound like an evangelist now so I’ll sign
off! . . . |
