Thursday, March 28, 2013

I got worked over . . .

I'm all about some non-surgical maintenance these days . . . like we've discussed, I'm not taking this aging BS lightly.  I don't want anything injected necessarily . . . just a little light lasering . . . well, maybe a LOT. 

So I think I'm going for a facial today with Gary . . . he's fabulous and is supposed to be amazeballs at the skin care so I'm all like "bring IT!"  He takes one look at me and is like, "We have an hour, I think we need to tone down the red."  Mmmmkay. 

Now a quick little backstory . . . I'm the fairest person in the land . . . no seriously, like translucent.  I'd like to think 'fairest' in the Sleeping Beauty kind of way, except no, I'm not.  Damn.  When I was a kid, I hoped that all my freckles would connect so I would be tan.  Sad, I know.  Turns out freckles won't connect and any sun EVER will make me look permanently sunburned.  Awesome. 

True story.  I wouldn't even date a fair skinned person or a redhead because I wanted my imaginary future children to be tan . . . like savage, unlike their mother.  Getzy has a Lebanese heritage and sticks an arm out the car window and gets a tan.  Score.  Surely we would make brown babies, except again, not.  My genes are just too 'awesome' because we have three blue eyed, brown haired, PALE children with the most delightful freckles dancing across their noses.  Awww, adorbs.  Maybe next time, except there won't be a next time so I just buy a crap ton of sunscreen and SPF shirts.  I digress . . .

I'm pretty sure my voice gets a little higher when I inquire of Gary, "How do we 'tone' down the red?"  I mean, I want it toned down and all, but I'm a little 'askeerd.'  He's all chill and such, like no big deal, we'll just use the laser to go over the red areas, you know, like my WHOLE face.  No biggie 'cause nobody sees that.  Ever. 

He assures me all is well so then I figure it's time to 'just do it' . . . so I ask, "Well, what about my chest?"  Can he do that too?  (No, freakshow, not my boobs, the area from my neck to my boobs.)  But of course he can, because as stated, he's amazeballs so let's do this thang! 

So we go into the little white room with a hot pink table . . . it's pretty clinical . . . I think so we feel like things are all legit.  Ok.  He politely asks me to take off my shirt and just pull the straps of my sports bra down around me . . . because that's easy.  Not.  He is a man, albeit a fabulous one.  Surely he doesn't know that sports bras are meant to be supportive and tight by nature, not easy to just slip your arms out of . . . I mean I tried, felt like a sausage and just said to hell with it.  I took it off.  I'm a rebel.  And yes, they gave me this little bath wrap so he didn't get a peep show.

And here's my nemesis . . . or maybe my fountain of youth?

 
So he comes back in, after knocking politely, and gives me these cool metal googles to cover my eyes and very firmly tells me not to open them.  Yes sir.  I know a friggin' laser is going near my eyes and while I'm not a sci-fi girl, this can't be good, so I heed the warning. 

He tells me it's going to be like a cold burst of air and it really shouldn't hurt.  Well, if you don't mind getting whacked by rubber bands at point blank range repeatedly, then yes, it really doesn't hurt.  I only slightly jumped every time he pushed the laser button, but I really tried not to do it . . . I even apologized at one point.  I can liken it to that obnoxious glaucoma test they do at the eye doctor when you have to hold your head still and then they shoot that burst of air into your eye . . . yeah, pretty much covers it. 

So then he goes and gets these two ice packs and literally just keeps pressing them all over my face, neck and upper chest area . . . 'cause as it turns out, the laser makes me a little red.  Duh.  I'm so freakin' hot, he needs ice to cool me off.  Ba-bam.  I even noticed he was sweating . . . poor guy.  Between the tiny little room, a smokin' hot laser and me, he didn't have a chance.  Snicker.

So I have some time left in my hour and we got this laser on reserve, what else can that b!tch do?  Turns out, I can get some of these obnoxious spider veins in my legs lightened.  I know, I'm painting an amazing picture of hotness in your head.  Getzy is a lucky bastard.  Fact.

I've inquired about these veins before and seem to remember someone saying they could explode with a laser but since Gary is a profesh, I'm convinced I'm in great hands, and surely he doesn't want me to explode all over this tiny little room any more than I do.  So I hike up the yoga pants and he sets off on his laser journey again.  This wasn't so bad really, I mean, I did just get my face cooked . . . like a real girl on fire.   Meanwhile I was meant to be rotating the ice blocks on my neck and chest . . . cooling mama off and such. 

So he finishes my legs and moves back to my head . . . he slathers on this thick cream, arnica I think he called it, all over my face, neck and chest.  He says it's still red and asks if I wore a loose shirt.  Well, not exactly.  I wore a sports bra and one of those tight long sleeve wicking shirts, under my hoodie of course, just in case I had to go for a run . . . cause I'm almost a runner.  He's really wants me to let the cream set on my skin for awhile so like the classy broad I am, I simply zipped up the hoodie, stuffed my shirt and sports bra in my tiny purse, and let the 'girls' freestyle . . . 'cause that's how I roll.

So I just checked the mirror, assessing Gary's handy work.  My eyes may be deceiving me, but I'm pretty sure I now look like Heidi Klum, all tan and gorgeous, just after one laser treatment for my 'redness.'  That stuff is better than unicorns and rainbows. 

So here's my PSA for today:  Put on some friggin' sunscreen.  Like a lot.  Every damn day.  And you're welcome.

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