I’ve become increasingly aware that I don’t know squat – I can say, from experience, that making a life is possibly a good deal more involved than simply making a series of adjustments to survive. Life for humans is, apparently, the adjustment. In much the same way that the chiropractic experience, with its pushing and pulling and bending of our bodies is an adjustment – this life, taken as a whole, is our adjustment.
And I’ll go a step further with this hold-the-phone theory – it doesn’t appear that we have any choice in the matter. The die is cast when we first arrive. Here we are, these pitiful, helpless beings, unable to exert any real control over our circumstance, much less our environment. We don’t know how to stay warm or awake, we can’t talk, sit up or even eat. If not for a mother, or someone else’s mother, or just some gentle someone to bestow some real kindness, warmth, protection and proper foods during those tenuous days, months and even years of hopeless dependence, ours would be a very short story indeed. Being a spiritual (though not religious) man, I try to thank God every day that someone took care of me back then.
Where was I? Oh yes. From the moment of birth, we make a racket, make a stink, and create lots of sleepless nights for everyone around us. It’s one of our first common experiences as humans where we’re really making anything!
Beginning in early childhood and continuing throughout the remainder of our days, we manage to stay pretty busy, making some stuff and destroying other stuff. I’m speaking of males primarily since I’m not in any position to speak with authority on the roles of women in this world. Men and women do get together in the “making things” department during the course of some lives and this is good in lots of ways. In short though, men’s duties include creating some artifacts, breaking others, sometimes even repairing our trappings, and we do several reps of this specialized recycling routine until we run out of steam.
Whether we made more friends than enemies along the way may possibly be a determining factor when it comes to how alone we’ll be when the lights go out. A conundrum here is that only we know, and no one else cares, if we intended to do the right things, or even if we made up a whole load of crap in order to create the impression that we did the right things. It only matters if we can believe and trust that overall we were as kind to others as we wanted them to be to us, and that we made more and messed up less.
This is my most recent take on the cycle of life. If there’s a next time for me, maybe I could come back as a dog. There’s got to be a nice, warm, simple couch to curl up on in somebody’s house.
…so how about a tune by Wendy Waldman. It’s called “Lee’s Traveling Song” – From her album “Love Has Got Me”
I haven’t come up with the main concept for my first book, but it must contain the following three components:
- Crazy people
- Wearing crazy clothes
- Doing crazy things
That about sums up what I intend to do, but I have more important fish to fry. I have VERY OILY SKIN. I realized I needed to come up with a way to face my face, put my best face forward and keep my chin up – all at the same time.
I’ve made some headway in the ongoing efforts at improving my complexion. It’s very distracting. My mug is. I grew up in New Mexico and because of the dry desert climate I had a very healthy, albeit oily, face. You need that when evaporation is a way of life. Shaving was the only mean thing I ever did to my cheeks and chin for most of my life. Didn’t have to.
In the soggy air and abundant city shade of Dallas, TX, my face has moved in some sad directions indeed. Unforseen and unwelcomed. Turns out there’s this Sebum issue. Sebaceous glands within my epidermis whiskerinus have continued to remain in a desert-alert state of mind while the rest of my body and soul have been transported by profession to this lovely Trinity River delta city in North Texas.
What this sebum business means is – I’ve got a funky oil slick thinly disguised as a face, now under considerable glandular pressure to rise to the surface. Without a lot of practical history in the complex science of skin care, I have many a time scoured the aisles of my nearby Kroger for various implements I could put to use to address:
- Painful welts
- Infected whiskers
- Excessively oily skin
Besides keeping handy a quart of hydrogen peroxide to dry out and shrink those welts and a variety of shaving gels to minimize the ingrown hairs, I eventually became a fan of the concept of microdermabrasion. It not only has a nice sounding name, a name that means business, but, by description, it also possesses the promise of filling the billing. You see, I needed some brand new skin to replace the faulty version I’d brought with me from Albuquerque, right? It seemed to work for a while, but eventually my face began to need three or more scrubbings a day just to keep up with the oils my sebaceous layer was contributing to offset the scrubbings. See the irony here?
Finally, I stopped into JC Penney where I buy many of my necessities, and deftly ducked into Sephora for some advice. I’d seen a guy or two in here before, and had been tempted many times to stop in. Since I now knew I wasn’t the only one who’d thought to consult an expert, today was the day. Sephora has just about everything for the person who needs to cleanse, correct and cover a blemished face. It helps that Adriana has remarkably perfect skin. Even really close up. That’s the best advertising.
But I wasn’t prepared for the look of horror that crossed Adriana’s face when I rattled off my skin-care regimen. “Oh, no, you shouldn’t be doing that!” she cried, as a child might when preparing to run from a burning house. Her expression just as quickly softened though into one of great beauty and compassion, mixed with just a little amusement. She explained that all that scrubbing I was doing had the unintended consequence of forcing my skin into war-time production of the sebum! We didn’t waste any time. We set to work, pulling one item after another; First stop? This.
Then, Adriana moved on with dazzling confidence, plucking items from a kiosk here and an end-cap shelf there, repeating verbatim my list of ailments and brandishing the corresponding cures. We picked out a variety of ointments, including a starter kit by Murad to control my acne symptoms, and a mosturizer for some lingering rosacea. That pretty much completed my whirlwind buying tour of Sephora along with her final instructions on when to use what. Now, after a week or so of following Adriana’s recommendations, I’ve already become a very passable looking 63 year-old dude. This is a work in progress of course. But I have a goal in mind. With dreams of some pretty lady’s lips attaching themselves to my new, relatively adorable face, I’ll close with this awesome track from Usher.