The chin hair's connected to the ...

Slave to fashion and beauty I am not.


But sometimes, reality compels that certain beauty remedies must take place.

To prevent being mistaken for a "lovely" Cro Magnon woman, I will sometimes trim, tweeze and pluck out the odd vestige of the hirsute past of my ancestors. It may look good on them, but trust me when I tell you, it's not attractive on me.


As I have gotten perilously closer to the half century mark, my legs haven't needed so much shaving as has my chin, lip, cheeks and eyebrows. I fear that I look like a blond version of the museum exhibits at the Smithsonian. Ooh, ooh, aah, aah. I never have subscribed to the notion that I am descended from the characters on "The Planet of the Apes". However, I may be descended from their hair. That may be a separate DNA study altogether.


The frustrating part of all that trimming, plucking and tweezing is that I am a real baby when it comes to yanking out those hairs. You'd think after all the agony I've put my body through over the years that ripping a tiny hair out would be a walk in the park.


Sadly, I have discovered an anatomical truth that few realize: the chin hair's connected to the brain cell... directly... through some kind of ganglia that connects it to the most pain-filled receptor in the entire body.


Unlike those women on TV ads who can wax their legs and smile as they rip down to the follicles, I have to grit my teeth and bite my tongue to prevent the screaming that would most assuredly come out of my mouth otherwise.


How can truly hairy women stand all that wax and rip jazz? Perhaps in their minds, the Cro Magnon woman from which they sprung is immune to the pain.


I am reasonably certain that my Cro Magnon woman was a wuss.


If left to grow on its own recognizance, can I make the hair long enough to apply for a part time gig with the side show? Or is there another chick who has beat me to the job because her DNA was all ape? Either way, tempting as it sounds to make money from the furry coating, I truly don't want to be known as the woman who can braid her chin hairs.I'd much rather look like those smooth-skinned beauties who grace the covers of magazines. They look like they don't even OWN any follicles on their faces.


I realize that they are altered, appliqued and airbrushed to be more than they can be under laboratory conditions. I've seen proof of it. And after the digital manipulations occur, their own mothers would be hard pressed to identify the child that is theirs in real life.


But is it too much to ask that some of that digital perfection be rendered in MY direction? My sons will be just fine with facial hair... I'll donate ALL that I don't currently want or need. It's only fair that I do so. They are my sons, they are DUDES and facial hair is expected on men.


Where is the digital master of beauty who can keep me from experiencing the pain of yanking out my brain cells through each follicle? Hasn't The FDA developed some kind of Jetson-like technology that will allow me to literally 'put my face on" and look presentable under all traffic conditions? 

If not, they have sure been wasting the money we give them! While they are deployed into the U.S. of A. and are out inspecting pig carcasses, surely they can spare some of their best scientists to make sure women look more like women and less like museum worthy specimens?


We study cow flatulence on government grants. Can't we spend a dime or two working on hair removal?


I think the last tweezer session has rendered my brain numb.


Maybe ice cream will help.


But now I'm worried that those same less than benevolent science types will discover that ice cream creates facial hair and animal crackers cement that hair to the deepest recess of the brain tissues cell by cell.


Is it a realistic fear? Dare I risk the damage?


Maybe if there is chocolate sauce on top...


Hey, if I'm gonna go hairy, I'm gonna go with chocolate sauce dripping down my whiskers.

And Satana laughed...

When you leave the PT pool and the kindly sister of Satan says "You are gonna hurt after this session" and she is smiling... take her at her flame throwing word.

Today was the Dante's Inferno Poolside.

Doing water therapy is healing and restorative. In that way that I mean "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

We started with the exercises that I learned in the last pool session. I was proud that my diligence in home exercising was paying off. So far, so fairly painless.

THAT was about to change.

What strikes fear into the hearts of PT patients everywhere is the cute little phrase, "Today, we're gonna try a couple of NEW things!" They smile when they say it. Almost being friendly. Lulling you into a false sense of security. Making it seem like we are all chums, pals, buddies... but soft, what is that evil laughter I keep hearing?

"Come over here to the drop off."



The DROP OFF!!!???

Then the real fun begins... with an angelic smile on her face (and by that I mean Hell's Angels), she demonstrates that I will be placing the surgical leg on the edge of the cliff. Then, with the alleged good leg, I will be performing a series of leg lifts in all directions while allowing full weight bearing to take place. Yippee!

The thrashing around convinced Satana that I needed a little help. So I was given a pair of pool floats that looked a lot like foam barbells with 6 weights on each one. Positioning them under my arms and using my hands to move the upper three 'weights' per side up and down to alter my relative vertical position in the water, I began to perform all kinds of leg lifts.

Just when I thought the paramedics would have to drag me from the pool, it was time to ride the bicycle in the water. That isn't all that easy...

I had worked my way up to 6 minutes on the stationary bike in the gym yesterday. Today, I got to "ride the water bike" for about 20 minutes.

Solemnly, I testify to you that yes, indeedy, it is possible to watch your legs turn into spaghetti. Don't be jealous. I'm going to crush up a bunch of Percocet and rub it directly onto my ankle. I plan to add some marinara sauce later on.

If I Drown, Do I Still Have to Pay the Co-pay?

Wednesday was the first time for PT in the pool. Water is so relaxing. . . unless Satan's sister Satana is there to make sure you hurt in places you didn't know you had.

Of course, I tease. The therapist was wonderful and kind and just doing her job. I think...  It didn't make my ankle hurt any less to know that in the deep recesses and folds of my cerebellum.

The invitation was extended to 'come on into the pool'. Gingerly, I set my remaining crutch by the side of the pool . The first of the pair was across the room by the little park bench where I'd slipped off my single tennis shoe and sock peeled off the storm trooper boot, then dropped my gym shorts and shirt so that I could peel down to my swimsuit.

Slowly, I winced and hobbled to the stairs with all the grace of an elephant while trying to keep from slipping on the water splashed pool deck.Why did going down the steps seem like a good idea? Wouldn't diving in have been easier?

I think I officially set fire to my left ankle just going down the steps getting into the pool... and you didn't think stuff burned when immersed in the water. HA! Now you know.

The therapist asked me to drift over to her side by the wall so the preliminaries could begin. Instructions were tendered and I began walking across the pool with a lap constituting one repetition or REP, as the cool people say.

I was instructed to do 5 reps of the walking. Okay, this might hurt a little bit, but I'm trusting that eventually the fire in my pitifully sore joint will burn my ankle nerves completely away or the pain will subside. After about 2 1/2 laps, the pain DID subside. I was grateful! Maybe this water therapy was going to be a GOOD thing!

Then, Satan's sister laughed. I'm sure she did. Someone laughed. I heard it! I'm certain!

"Great job! Now, do 5 more laps, but this time, walk BACKWARDS!" It was said so off the cuff that it seemed benign. But what started out as benign was actually malignant... malignant, malicious and mean! Did you know that when you are walking backwards that you are pushing off on your toes, ball of the foot and ankle with roughly the approximate pounds per square inch of a Mack truck? Yeah, me neither.

But I came to that understanding pretty quickly. The fire that had been extinguished only moments before was now replaced by Vulcan's forge with my ankle being the precious metal being hammered on the anvil. Ooooo weee! I rehearsed a few exciting thoughts and words in my brain.

I walked sideways both directions doing the grapevine moves that make marching bands look precise. I only looked drunk. Good thing I was in the water, or I would have hurt myself falling down.

As the time ticked on, the walking was followed by a 'gentle Achilles stretch' like runners and walkers use to prepare for their exercise. It was gentle... every single time I stopped... then I had to go up on my toes and then raise up the toes while balancing on my heels.

A gal can work up a sweat doing those little gems! But, the evil of the day wasn't over. Nope. All good things come to those who wait. And the therapist had waited for this next little doozy.

For weeks now, I have been doing a one-legged ballet in the bathroom and shower. My right leg has suffered for the one-sided effort. However, the pain was going to be shared today in a most exciting way. Satana had lots of fine plans for me.

"Time to do some leg lifts!" I misunderstood the concept. Satana smiled. It wasn't lifting the left leg she had in mind at all. Oh no! That would be waaaaaaaay to easy. Instead, she wanted me to SUPPORT my weight - MY FULL WEIGHT, on the surgically corrected ankle and lift the right leg in straight leg raises!!

The best part is, I was NOT to hold onto the wall. NONE! I could touch it with my fingertips to steady myself if I felt like I was about to be dragged into the undertow of the therapy pool surf but that was all. (trust me, there was a surf... three other people were there churning one up to help in Satana's diabolical plans!)

As my trembling left leg was protesting the violation of its wounded and shell-shocked tendons while I struggled to maintain even a weekend drunk's balance, the thought crossed my mind "I'm having to pay $25 bucks of co-pay for each one of these visits! If I slip under the surface of the water and drown, do I still have to PAY the co-pay?"

Then I realized it would probably wind up costing more to drown. Sanitizing the pool and paying off the other horrified class members because of the yukky dead body bobbing in the water that had ruined everything was gonna be expensive.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

HOLY FLAMING COW PIES AND CAT SNOT! THAT HURTS!!

And I only had to do twenty reps... hee hee.

Finally, I made it all the way up to the big number 20 on the rep count and was granted a breather.

Did you know PT also means partial torture? Yeah, it does.

Did I mention that stairs hurt going down? Yeah, they do, but they hurt much worse when you practice lifting yourself up with your bad leg over and over and over. By the time "uncle" was called and I tapped out, the therapist told me to sit on the steps for some ROM exercises that she would perform.

The evil laughter was loud.

When I got changed and back into my street clothes to stagger towards the lobby where Beth was waiting, she asked if I wanted to wait by the door or hobble out to the truck. I confess that numb, endorphin-driven euphoria most certainly took over and spoke up for me saying I'd walk to the truck. In retrospect, I am thinking "what idiot said that???"

It's all good though. I don't have to go back to the pool until next Wednesday. With any luck, the building with catch fire and burn to the ground. HA!

I should be so lucky... because come next Wednesday, I know that the smiling face of Satana will welcome me into the warm waters of the River Styx that carries all PT patients through Purgatory and back.

At least I hope there is a return trip...

Help meeeeeeee!

Dream Catcher

It's happened to all of us at one time or another. You are right in the middle of an awesome dream! It's better than anything you have ever seen at a movie theater! The colors are bright and vivid, you are in the center of the action and the surroundings are crystal clear. If only you had some way to capture this moment it would make millions of dollars and be more culturally worthy than anything to hit the marquee in decades...

then the alarm rings and the dream is gone - POOF!

All that remains is a disquieting feeling that you just experienced something amazing but you can't even lay a finger on its fringe now.

Sad, but true.

Conversely, there is another dream truth.

Any horrible life altering nightmare you have ever had will likely be replayed as late night fodder for an overactive mind. It is as if the bad stuff is a long run theater production that no one wants to really go see but everyone is compelled to attend because we owe a favor of some sort to the director and his tacky kids are in it. We dare not miss it.

Nightmares are always repeaters for me. I can think of a lot of pleasant dreams and recall snatches of detail that is lovely. But the nightmares, I can describe in a brilliance and wonder that would belie their nasty content. Years ago, there was a comic strip that talked about just such a thing.

"They'll Do It Every Time" showed a happy woman skipping through daisies in a pleasant dream only to have it snatched away leaving only a vague sensation of the momentary joy. But let the same woman have a dream of spectral terror, and it comes back night after night leaving her screaming from her bedroom begging for help.

Why does our mind play those kinds of tricks on us?

And can anything be done to change the bad to good?

There are those who claim to have special insight into the meaning of dreams. Entire websites are dedicated to "dream dictionaries" and vouch for the authenticity of their definitions.

But like the psychobabble of days past, I have to say, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar!'

Other than Daniel's Godly interpreting of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, I haven't heard of a whole lot of spot on commentary on why we dream the things we do - for good OR for ill.

I like to think that a frantic pace and worried mind lends some weight to the issue. Sometimes, whatever is troubling me shows up in my dreams in fractured format. Other times, it's like I'm role playing my way through various solutions as I sleep.

Either way, I don't always find the answer or definition to the dream.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream!

There are times the dream is so wonderful that I wish science had figured out a way to create a dream catcher to preserve and share the great stuff. Other times, I am deeply grateful that technology doesn't exist because the nightmares of their varying hues of blackness disturb me to my soul.

I remember hearing a story from when I was a child, about how when it was bedtime, pixies would come and sprinkle dream dust on us to give us good dreams. I doubted that or worried what kind of fairy I was getting because even as a little kid, I had nightmares.

What kind of perverted fairy scoops up little bags of black dust to sprinkle dreams of spooky fright onto an impressionable child who is afraid of the dark and give them images of ghost in the closets, skeletons under the bed and evil outside the windows?

I wanted the fairy that gave dreams of ponies and flowers and happiness.

Apparently, then and now, I have a fairy with a warped sense of humor. For every pleasant few nights, I am compelled to endure at least one night of heart pounding, pulse racing, sweat provoking, scream inducing, sleep depriving torture via my own dreams.

Does anyone know what bait you use to trap the dream fairy?

I'd like to catch that little waif and give her a taste of her own dusty medicine.