Blue-haired Epiphanies

There are those among us who are fair of skin with nary a blemish on them. Me? I grew up in the land of Freckles--a place that still haunts me today. No Ruby Slippers getting me out of this place. My arms, legs, back...you name it and I could offer you up a multitude of tiny brown dots. And these were exacerbated by days in the sun sans sunscreen as a child and then--worse--oiling up and crisping in the harsh rays as a teenager. Horrible I know--when you think of the permanent and potentially serious damage that kind of sun causes but who knew there'd be an issue back when baby oil was the logical first step in stepping up my popularity since pastey white girls were never in favor at my school? Sprinkle a little Sun In in my hair and voila! Brassy, bright yellow hair to complement my charred skin. Very natural looking.

Now, me and my freckles pay the price. The dermatologist loves me--sends me Thank You cards from her visit to the Islands. She should. I paid for the trips. But when you have abused your skin the way I did, have to take precautions now. So I trot off to be examined regularly.

Funny side story--the first time I did this, I assumed there was a machine that examined your body. Nope. Turns out, you get to stand in just your birthday suit while you're humiliatingly scrutinized from head to toe and crevice to crevice by a human being who is undoubtedly collecting memories to entertain guests with at dinner parties.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I endured my first freezing process on not one, not two but three spots on my legs. I was assured by the nurse ahead of time that it wasn't really painful--just really, really cold.

She lied.

I discovered this about 5 seconds after she put that torture device against my skin. Expletives might have escaped my mouth. She apologized throughout the entire 30 seconds that thing sat against my skin but it didn't help a bit. And there were two more of those to do to go along with one tiny spot in the middle of my back.

After receiving bandaids and polysporin that really do not "make it all better," I was sent merrily on my way. I was on fire. Freezing is more akin to burning, right? We all know that something so cold can burn you. It's unpleasant. And I had to figure out how to drive myself home.

My legs didn't want to move. I hate a burn more than any other kind of pain and I found myself taking no more than half breaths. I started envisioning how much it would hurt if I had to make a sudden stop and hit the brakes. On the way home, I had planned to run into a grocery store. That was before I realized the condition I'd be in, yet I rationalized that I was really making more of a deal of this than it truly was. And it seemed a waste of time to go all the way home and then have to go back out again later. So into Publix I went. Only I wasn't "running" anywhere. In fact, I moved at a snail's pace, leading on my cart like a crutch and trying not to wince with every shuffle forward but failing miserably.

It was during this excruciating 20 minutes (what grocery store trip can be accomplished in less than 20 minutes no matter how few items you think you're going to get?), that I realized what it will be like when I'm 80ish and moving impossibly slow, regardless of the fast pace going on around me. Speaking as one who is always going 90 to nothing these days, it was a unique perspective: forced to slow down because you physically cannot move any faster. It was not awesome--this glimpse into my elderly self. My hair was an odd shade of blue/purple/gray and I had shrunk so it was a struggle to see over the steering wheel. But I tell you what I learned from seeing that slow-moving, blue haired future old me: we need to stop racing around long enough to appreciate the health we have now because there'll come a day soon enough that we're not moving anywhere quickly.

Yes, through a pain-filled haze I had an epiphany. Rein it back a little before you have no choice about slowing your pace. Oh, and always wear sunscreen.