Wasted on the Young
Monday, March 22, 2004
I'm sure there are other variables, but this is still worth filing away for future reference: the formula that wearers of high-heeled shoes can use to work out how high they can go. (Via Perverse Access Memory.)
The Tan Adventure, Con't.
I returned for week two of the four week, pre-vacation sunless tanning treatment at the day spa. I was disappointed that even with my additional home treatments between the body wraps, the color was not deepening enough to hide all my skin flaws. The wonderfully scent free sunless tanning lotion from MD Formulations kept deepened me only to a light tan, something less than pale. On the other hand, this is probably a decent shade to maintain during the winter up here in the North. One looks healthy, not insane.
This trip, The Skin Care Specialist suggested I try the make up line she uses - and what do you know - is sold at the spa. Some crushed minerals creation from Bare Escentuals, called bareMinerals, she explained. It's three separate powders, 100% natural, and covers the uneven red flush-looking skin that men and women get in their 40's. Better than that, I discovered, it actually turns heads.
After the body wrap, my face was all flush from the heat. The Skin Care Specialist got some of her makeup, and in about 45 seconds did half of my face. First she applied a powder sun screen, then a powder bronzing base, then an all-over mineral veil. I looked so good, I was a saleperson's dream. I started to get up to go, so people could see me. She suggested she finish the other half. I was absolutely sold. Then, by accident, I tested it.
The last time I was in New York, I was stranded in a hotel lobby, waiting for my daughter. I stood around watching everyone. No one watched me. I was still in travel clothes and without makeup. I was completely invisible. I decided not to wait, and slipped into the hotel bathroom to change and do my face. When I came out, hotel personnel that had passed me by before were suddenly paying attention to me, striking up conversations. Others actually looked at me for more than a second as they entered the main area. It could have been a lot of things: Dress versus Nike sports pants; three more inches in height; confidence. But I could tell by where they eyes hit and for how long, that it was my face that grabbed them. Nothing knock out. I am 45 years old and have both feet quite firmly planted in reality. But I knew my face looked healthy and glowing and I suddenly stood out. I think that that is the point. I don't want to look 25. That would be scary. I want to look healthy, wealthy and wise. There is enough attraction in that, and it is certainly attainable.
The upside to this makeup is that it works, it is relatively quick and easy to apply, and it is affordable. It claims that it is natural, but I am not in a position to attest to that. The downside is that it is messy. The powder is so light that it seems to float in mid air. So a controlled environment is best, but I don't always have a controlled environment. It may be less than the ideal travel makeup, but I can see from the web site that travel kits available.
One other thing. A 15 SPF is nothing for my skin. During the summer I need higher than 30. I am not sure how this makeup will work with the heavy, greasy, waterproof bases I use (and compared to the powder, even the best cream will feel like grease). I will write the company and find out. And as usual, share.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
I don't usually pay attention to the ads that appear in the banner above this, but the one for this site caught my eye. Strange world.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Friday, March 12, 2004
If I may shift the focus for a moment here, I would like to say a few words on the topic of breasts. As a guy, I am a big fan of breasts, but I wish to emphasize that this is not at all the same thing as being a fan of big breasts. People say they can always spot implants-- I'm not so sure that my powers of discernment are that acute, but for sure I can tell when a woman is sporting a rack that is age-inappropriate, and it is inevitable that such a set will be cartoonishly outsized. Probably a good rule of thumb is that if you are young enough to look good with implants, you are too young to bother-- your breasts are fine, dear. If you aren't that young, implants probably are only going to make you seem more alluring to bikers, white trash and sleezeballs with toupees. In general surgical augmentation should be thought through carefully-- do you really want to look like a stripper at your kid's high school graduation?
We really want to do something different with this site; we need to split it in half and have the posts run independently and in two columns. Unfortunately, the instructs are a bit too hard to follow. Maybe this weekend one of us will html and blogger and completely screw it up. If anyone knows of a blogger site that is split in half that way, please um, hmmm. Guess we need to get comments up, too. I will be back with an e-mail address. ciao for now.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Faith came back to the officve after having been out and about the other day and commented that she'd seen a classmate of hers, and that he looked old. He is someone that I've always thought of as young looking, but I don't see him often, so I had no way of assessing her opinion. I saw him today, however, and I can tell you what it was-- he has packed on the pounds. He is not obese, or rotund, or even what most people would consider fat, I guess, but he is big, and it is aging him.
I think we all have a mental body image of ourselves, and I think that one of the shocks that comes with getting older is discovering that this mental image and our actual bodies stopped corresponding with each other quite some time ago. What I think of as a grown man's body is bigger, more solid than the body I think of myself as having-- this guy looked like what I thought grownups looked like back when I was in high school. Big ass, kind of blocky, and tired.
When I was in high school I was rail thin, and very self conscious about it. Grain based beverages and lack of exercise took care of that over time. About 14 years ago I topped at 225+. I didn't want to know how much over 200 I was-- when I clunked the counterweight over from 200, I knew that I had to do something. I looked like hell, if you want to know the truth, and it didn't look like the end was in sight. My clothes fit badly, and I had acquired that sack of grain look that is so delightful. I looked like what I thought old guys look like-- guys that have just quit giving a shit.
The building where I worked was the headquarters of a bank. Tucked away here and there in the building were a lot of little amenities-- there was a drycleaner, for example, and a barber. And there was a little gym. It was nothing much-- a couple of stationary bikes, and some weight equipment, a men's and a women's lockerroom, each with a sauna. The bank was a client, and the company I was working for got permission for us to have access to the gym, and I started using it.
It was perfect, actually. Very few people were ever there. Two other guys from my company showed up sometimes, and some guy from the bank who skipped rope and worked on his arms. A guy from the mailroom. Faith went, and that's another story, but most of the time I had the place to myself, which was perfect for a fat, out of shape guy. I would bring some mix tapes down, crank some tunes, and work the stationary bike, like a fat lady in a cartoon. Since I was doing this at lunch, I was not eatting lunch, which meant that I was burning calories instead of consuming them. This was a big shift, and it started showing results fairly quickly.
When I got to the point where I was aerobically capable of walking up two flights of stairs the weather got nice, and I started running. It may have been Faith's idea to do that, actually, but I had been I runner back when I was skinny, and it seemed like the thing to do. Within a year I dropped 50 pounds. Women said I looked great, and asked me how I'd done it. Men didn't say anything, to me, but asked each other, "Is Ray sick?" I had all my suits taken in.
Heavy is not a good look. Fit is good, but it is not easy. Injuries and other things have set me back a few times over the years, but right now I'm just about where I like my body to be. It makes me look younger, and better. Lance is right (I am liking his site quite a bit): get your ass to the gym. You don't want to look like that.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
My job takes me out and about pretty regularly, so I see a lot of people of all ages-- older and younger. I pretty much know how old these people are, because we are all pretty much in the same business but you'd never guess their ages by looking at them. Most men my age look at least ten years older than they actually are, and a lot look worse than that. There are all kinds of things you can do to yourself to make yourself look like your grandfather, and a lot of them have to do with hair. I've mentioned orange already. Don't do it. If you are concerned that a touch of grey makes you look old (it doesn't, necessarily), wear your hair short. Actually, do that anyway-- long hair is mostly more trouble than it is worth. There is no excuse for combovers, ever. If your hair is in retreat, take it down. Seriously-- it's a good look, and you'll appreciate the low maintenance that short, or even smooth, brings you. Thinking about a rug? What are you, stupid? An expensive piece looks like an expensive piece, and marks you as a insecure chump. A cheap rug marks you as an insecure chump who is also a tightwad. That's the look you're going for? I didn't think so.
The idea of a collaborative project to which I would contribute what amounts to Beauty Tips for Boys was not mine: like many of the good ideas in my life, Faith came up with this one. I question my qualifications, but I can at least serve as a sort of clearinghouse for other resources. BackupBrain pointed me to Brad's post on skin care products and Lance's "Guide to Man Grooming". Sure, both are a little over the top, but Lance and Brad are both going to look better than you for longer because they are taking care of themselves. For a long time I figured that having a face like an old boot was something to aspire to, but I don't think that way any more.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Bronzers and the like are over the line for me-- metrosexual or not, that's makeup, and that's not happening. You can talk about pixels all you want-- guys in makeup look like drag queens, regardless of what they are wearing. I was thinking about this the other day-- the fact is that I've been using moisturizer for a couple of years now, and although I would never admit it outside of this semi-anonymous forum, it works, and I like it. Who knows what else lies down this road-- I can't believe that dipilitory products might be in my future-- but aren't tufts of hair one of the hallmarks of old men? Women and men have different advantages in the struggle against age, and I wouldn't presume to say who has the upper hand. It does seem to me, though, that one edge women have is that they are better aware of the struggle, and have spent more time shoring up their defenses. By the time most men realize that they have turned into the equivalent of the fat, one-eyed gray beagle that sits on the porch down the block, it is too late to do anything that doesn't look desperate, and desperate mean it is over. Orange hair, and bronzer both scream desperate, and when we see those guys, even the fat gray beagles among us know that there's a guy who is being culled from the pack.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
To Dye For, Cont.
I stole $10 from my daughter's purse to be able to run in and grab a tube of self tan. The only one under $10, was L'Oreal's Sublime Bronze. I arrive at the day spa and hand the tube over to The Skin Care Specialist. She looks at it and says, in the sweetest voice, "Oh. I am sorry. We are not allowed to do this."
The Skin Care Specialist is young.
I am not.
"But the last time I was here, I asked Skin Care Specialist Tracy and she said she would do it for me."
"They are worried about clients getting mad about streaks," she explained.
"Well, you cannot do it any worse than I would. I was planning on doing this every week until my vacation. I have very sensitive skin and cannot tan, but I don't want to look like an idiot," I explain. My hamster brain began debating whether to discuss the pixels and my new discovery, but at the phrase "every week" The Skin Care Specialist bolted from the room. She returned with permission, provided I buy their product line. I am convinced it is because I stole. Now I will pay twice.
The Skin Care Specialist paused to think. I measured her up. She was so pretty. Young and fair skinned with beautiful dark brown hair. Every feature was petite, except her eyes. They were large and kind. Women like this never yell, they care for their mothers, they pick up after themselves, they end up with nice quiet husbands who adore them, they never spend too much, and they don't wrinkle. Although I am prone to jealousy and related petty behaviors, my reaction to these women is no different than my reaction to any Charlize Theron: religious reverence.
"I cannot do the hydro wrap. The tanning lotion would slide right off," she assessed. I will have to exfoliate instead."
"That's fine." I really didn't care. By February my skin is see-through white, the undertone is blue, and the texture is magnified grasshopper derma. All I really want is a warm room, a heated blanket, and some attention. I change into a paper thong and lay on the heated table. The room is dark and subtley scented. The piped in music soothes. Then the Skin Care Specialist covers me in Comet cleanser and scrubs.
I get sleepy. It doesn't matter what she does, actually. She could put me on a rack or bed of nails, and I would still start to doze. It must be a form of "who, me?" hypnosis. When your life is spent answering to kids, spouses, and whatever walks through the office door, even a root canal says, "Let's pay attention to you for a second." But my almost-sleep is disturbed the snap of a thin rubber glove on a hand. Time to get tan.
There are three bad things about self-tanning products. The lotions streak, they turn the parts of your hands that usually stay pale in the summer, dark, and even the spray-on's stink. Medical gloves help protect the hands, but The Skin Care Specialist refused to wear them. She said it was making it streak. Then she took a towel and gently buffed side to side across my knees, elbows, and ankles, a place where excess seemed to gather. When I got up from the table, I looked at her looking at her palms. She was rubbing them together, both of them brown. She looked up at me with her big, now troubled eyes and wondered aloud, "Maybe it will come off with lemon juice?"
"No, my child," I thought in a priestly way. A good tip would make things better.
Then I realized something amazing. I did not smell that odd baby oil and chemcial dump smell that made you want to stay away from any others. I looked at the product. MD Formulations. I had never heard of it before. I took the bottle home with me and reapplied two days later. I used thin rubber gloves to apply and baby wipes to cut back the excess and any streaks. I made my $10 poorer daughter do my back. When I showered later that night, a lot of brown seemed to race towards the drain, but my skin still looks terrific, and I am just beginning.
I go back on Wednesday. For some reason, I want The Skin Care Specialist to be proud of me.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Rule #1. With the exception of water, sunscreen and exercise, it won't work unless a doctor is involved.
To Dye For
I made a great discovery. I have been retouching a photograph of a woman whose face was pressed up close to her daughters. My friend pleaded, "I love this, but I look so bad. Can you make me beautiful?" This display of vanity was unlike her, but the contrast between her skin and and her daughter's may have been startling.
In Photoshop I blew the photograph up so that I was just looking at pixel squares. As I found the darker blocks of color that depict the wrinkle, I would lighten each square. This served to raise the wrinkle. If I had blurred it or airbrushed it, then it would have looked as if her half of the picture was taken with a gauze filter. I wanted her skin to be as natural looking as her daughter's. As I was surveying the skin, I noticed that even in the areas where there were no wrinkles, pixels varied from near whites to pinks to greens and to browns.
I thought I would add a little color to the mom's lips, so I crossed over to the daughter's side of the picture to match the color. As I passed over the 10 year old's cheek massively magnified cheek, I noticed that there was hardly any color variation. All across her face, the shades at most blended from pink to rose, and each color was vibrant - no whites, no browns, and certainly no greens or purples. So I returned to the mom's side and got rid of what color extremes I could find.
The sun destroys the skins pigments and creates splotches. (In a sense, after a while we all suffer melasma to a certain degree.) Other things such, as alcohol, can cause barely visible tiny blue and purple veins to surface. This is the principle behind foundation. It evens the skin's pigments. But it does not last. And current anti-aging fixes such as botox will not stop the destruction to the skin.
So this month's study starts with sunless tanning lotion. Make your skin look tan, then cover with sun screen, constantly.
The trouble with sunless tanners is that they smell; the kind of smell where you don't want to be next to you. It's an odd mix of baby oil and a chemical dump. Another problem is short arms. There is no way that one person can completely cover themselves or avoid streaks, dark stains in the creases of the hands, and wait - I am up to problem number 5.
So this month's study includes the use of a day spa to get a tan.
It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it.
Monday, March 01, 2004
On mornings like this, I want to write a little song about phentermine. So mild, so efficacious. Most of what I am trying to do to keep a half step ahead of the depredations of age is exercise, but there is quite a pharmacopoeia that is required to get me moving. Over the weekend I jumped my mileage up, which is great, but it makes me tired, like a weekend of skiing. I can't be dragging around, acting my age, so the little bump that the phen gives me is just what the doctor ordered. Okay, not actually a doctor, but like a doctor. You know, like a nice doctor that gives you what you want, and shuts up about it.
Friday, February 27, 2004
My youth obsession started long before it had any reason to, and has as its basis the unrealistic goals I have always set for myself. I am past the point now where I can be the fourth schoolboy to run a sub four minute mile (Jim Ryun, Tim Danielson and Marty Liquori were the first, some kid named Alan Webb did it two years ago). I'm not going to be the youngest Nobel Prize laureate in Literature. (Albert Camus, 44. Died the year I was born.) I am not going to be the youngest person to become President, or be elected President. (Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy, respectively-- a lot of people get that wrong.)
Just the fact that I know these things is a little troubling-- I've always known these things, and have ticked them off my list as my life's odometer has clicked past the years. Still, I have plenty of other things that I intend to do, and I'm by god going to do what it takes to stay young enough to look good doing them. If I can't stop the clock, I can still do a lot of things to compensate for wear and tear-- and I'm going to.
