Laser Hair Removal: The Approach You Should Avoid...

My sister just got a laser hair removal machine. As in, zip-zap-zappo and the leg hair is gone. And we're talking one of the big, fancy, commercial kind that spas use, not some dumb little diy at-home model. Can I just say how exciting that is? Especially when she says things like, "Hey Jenny, your pasty white skin and dark hair just happen to be perfect for laser hair removal. Would you mind growing out your leg hair so I can take before pictures of it and then letting me zap it ALL AWAY FOREVER?"

I had to think about it. For about a millisecond. Then operation grow-out-my-leg-hair commenced. (Of course I already had about a week's head start on it. It's like I'm psychic or something, because I'm sure I never went that long without shaving my legs before...)

That was about a month ago, and today was the big day. My sister has a friend who is training people to use the machine, and I was to be the practice subject for today's student. I admit that I wasn't crazy about the idea of someone 'practicing' on me, but if the end result is no leg hair, sign me up. So this morning I took my hideously hairy legs over there for a little laser action.

I arrive, and she (the trainer/friend) takes a few pictures of my lovely legs and then tells me to shave. See, a laser burns the hair out of the follicle, and the more hair you have above the skin the worse it hurts. Cause it burns. Unfortunately, being the optimistic person that I am, I disregarded the implications here. You know how pamphlets for stuff like this always say things like, "You may experience some minor discomfort," or "The sensation is something like a small pin prick,"? Yeah, as a matter of course I always assume these things to be gross exaggerations made for the faint of heart.

You know what assuming makes you, right?

And so, with my usual disrespect for such precautions, I whipped out my little electric shaver. It's true that the batteries were low, but that didn't worry me. A quick (and not very close or thorough) shave later, and I was ready to have my hair follicles burned out by a high powered laser.

Have you ever smelled burning hair? Have you ever heard the sound of hair follicles popping as they're disintegrated by the beam of a laser? Have you ever seen wisps of smoke coming off your own legs in the aftermath of said disintegration? Let me tell you, it may sound bad but it feels much, much, much worse. And the whole time the teacher and trainee kept saying things like, "Wow, that whole patch really popped, didn't it?" and "It's starting to smell like burnt popcorn in here," (chuckle, chuckle, chuckle). (I was not chuckling.)

The ankles were the worst. Especially because the 'trainee' didn't seem to get the part about keeping the laser pressed straight down on the leg. You see, if you tip it or lift it THEN IT ARCS. You know, like what lightning does when it causes a building to burst into flames? Or like a 50,000 volt electric fence will do if you get too close to it? Yeah, she couldn't seem to get that memo despite the fact that I kept saying  things like, "Um, I think your TIPPING IT!!!" (This last would come out as a shriek as the arc of the laser made contact. Popping and wafts of smoke would generally follow.)

Finally, however, it was done. Over. Finished. Kind of. Because I'll need at least one more treatment, and probably two or three to get rid of all the hair. Is it worth it? Definitely. People get their hair ripped out with hot wax repeatedly, so I think I can take little laser arcing and follicle burning in the name of hairless legs. But will I shave, and then shave again, and then shave again before I go back for round two? Uh, yeah. And I recommend you do the same if you ever get a chance to get any of your hair lasered, because the amount of 'slight discomfort' you will experience will be significantly more if you fail to pay heed to that one, simple, and vastly important step.

The things we do. All in the name of beauty, right?

The Jog/Walk Diaries - Doing the Shuffle

I just want to tell the world that I really have gone jog/walking. TWICE. I know, I know, you think I am amazing. I'm actually feeling a little that way myself, to tell you the truth. Who would have thought I'd be up for multiple bouts of self-torture? That's a bet I definitely would have lost.

And how has it been, you want to know? Will I continue? Can I still move after two maybe-it-was-a-mile jog/walks? I'm currently undecided on most of these issues, although just thinking about how far I've traveled down the road of complete muscle deterioration and loss of cardio stamina, makes me think my nighttime forays will probably continue.

And yes, I have been waiting for the cover of darkness before jog/walking. You see, it's not like I'm just jog/walking. This fitness undertaking (no pun on the whole death and dying thing intended) revolves around basketball, and my getting in decent enough shape to handle a game of horse. This being the case, I have incorporated sprints and defensive stance/slides into my jog/walking routine. This is not a joke. I would die if I were seen.

Can you imagine watching some chick jog/walking nonchalantly along, thinking she's a completely normal person, when suddenly she drops into a defensive stance and does these moronic looking shuffles from one side of the lonely country road to the other? Or stays in place doing defensive shuffles facing front-2,3,4, right-2,3,4, left-2,3,4, etc.? There's no way I'm jog/walking in daylight hours. I mean, really, I'm the first to admit I can be a bit dorky, but I do have some pride.

And it is a bit boring. And I'm definitely sore. Not like volleyball-daily-double-sore, or anything, but I am feeling the effects of jog/walk/defensive-shuffling.

There are some encouraging aspects as well. Like the fact that I made my almost-mile in twenty-seven minutes on the first go. (Are you seeing how pathetic it is now?? This was encouraging... So sad). And last night? Which I might have skipped if it hadn't been for the incredibly guilt-inducing oreos my darling husband brought home? Hold onto your hats, I took three minutes off my time! What is it people say when excited? Whoot? Well that's how I felt - Whootish. And very, very, tired.

So next time you're feeling down, picture me defensive-shuffling my way down the road like a complete idiot. I guarantee you'll crack a smile. True, it will be at my expense, but hey - what are friends/blogging buddies for?

Tan Lines

I just need to publicly announce that my skin actually has some color. I HAVE A TAN! Not much of one, but THERE IS A LINE! Hallelujah! It took three hours of floating around in the water to achieve it, but who cares. And can I just say (brace yourself) that I even got a little color on my legs??? (only the front, and not very much - at all - but at least I won't blind everyone at church {maybe}).

This is coming from the girl who thought she had made peace with her glowing whiteness. I do not want to hear any one with any amount of natural skin pigmentation try to commiserate with me here. You do not know what it's like in my world of year-round-whiteness. I do not burn, I do not tan. Apparently, I have the world's first sun-resistant skin. Let me illustrate.

I got tan once. I was working (like a SLAVE) for my brother one summer (the summer I met my husband actually - could it have been the tan??) and he had a pool. It was so ridiculously hot (over 95 EVERY day) that I would start working at 5:00 am. My entire day was spent in the sun as I hauled rocks with the wheel barrow, moved construction debris, hauled more rocks, and (attempted) to level his back yard with a shovel.

At 11:30 every day I took a two hour pool break to cool off. No sunscreen touched my body - my weapon of choice was baby oil. Slathered all over my glorious whiteness, the baby oil and I would float around my brother's pool following a strategic turning plan aimed at achieving the world's greatest tan. When finished, I would spend the rest of the day outside finishing my torture - oops, I mean work. (BTW, he paid VERY well).

After three months of this, those who knew me (and my natural coloring) well would say things like "Wow, it looks like you got a little color this year."

The rest of the population was probably wondering why I was so white.

I should have looked like a sun-goddess.

Really, I am constantly hearing how my skin "glows". Just so you know people, this is NOT a compliment if it's proceeded by phrases like "you're skin's so white it..." Especially coming from someone with a great tan, or naturally dark skin. And what about when they want to "compare" so they can show you just how white you really are (as if you didn't know). It's the equivalent of a skinny person going up to a fat person and saying "wow, you are sooo fat! Let's compare, see how much thinner I am than you? Let's put our butts together so we can measure the difference! Standing next to you makes me look like a supermodel!"

I digress. Back to the happy news, when I put a black t-shirt on this morning, my arms, chest, and neck didn't offer nearly the usual contrast! And of course they looked thinner, because everyone knows that tan takes inches off and adds tone to flabbiness. I am so thrilled I'm thinking of trying harder to get color next year. Let's see, it should only take about 300 hours of dedication to the sun to achieve that elusive "all-over-color"... Wish me luck.

What I love about Fall

I was just reading my good friend Natalie's blog, and she was reminiscing about Fall, and all the things she loves about Fall. I too love Fall, and it is definitely my favorite season. My reasons for this, however, are totally different and actually quite shallow. I LOVE Fall clothes!

Fall clothes means jackets, and boots, and layers, and never having to show i.e. shave, my bright white legs. I can put up my strappy sandals - which constantly reveal my lack of a pedicure - and get away with wearing ultra sheer, barely there, nude nylons. Fall clothes have structure, and camouflaging abilities. I could make a list of all the benefits of living in a jacket climate, which non-clothes-obsessed people would term 'moderate climate'.

Summer means T-shirts that either show every little bulge/roll/un-toned flesh, or they're so baggy you look two sizes bigger than you actually are. There are the cute little peasant/baby doll tops the teenie-boppers wear, but when you've had four children they tend to make people suspicious of your condition.

It's like the theme for summer clothes is "Reveal, reveal, reveal." Reveal your untoned upper arms, reveal your flip-flop wearing feet that never get as clean as you want them, reveal your white flesh and - heaven forbid - reveal it all in a swimsuit.

The one saving grace about summer is the reinvention of capris, which save me from baring any more of my blinding legs than absolutely necessary, while offering the convenience of shaving only to the knee. They may not be as cool as shorts, but hey, I am happy to make the sacrifice.

And so, year after year I cringe at the onset of the spring catalogue. I dread that inevitable day when I will wake up and say "I can no longer acceptably wear jeans and boots. The reveal has begun." Living in the Northwest means that for at least two thirds of the year I can throw on jacket, boots, and accessories with any dumb shirt and jeans, and make a trip to the grocery store looking cute and stylish. The power of structured fabric and cute jeans really is phenomenal. All that work to fool the world just to be forced into a swimsuit when summer comes around.

I'm sure I sound very silly and vain, but I can't seem to help myself. Of course there are good things about summer too. I love camping, fishing, and hiking, (all activities with with zero looks/fashion requirements) and the chance to take a break and hang out with my kids. But over all, if I'm forced to confess to a least-favorite season it has to be summer. If that makes me shallow and unpopular, so be it - and give me a jacket climate any day!