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July 18, 2006

Synergy, I Need Your Help

It’s not even working.

When Coral and I went to Acapulco last year, we bought a bunch of beauty products at the duty free. The best thing I bought, I thought, was this anti-cellulite gel. You’re supposed to rub it on in the morning and rub it on at night to the problem areas. In time, you’re supposed to see a change, a smoothness in what they call “orange peel skin.” Fancy terminology for nasty ass cellulite.

I got lazy and didn’t use the gel too often because I didn’t think I had a problem.

I don’t have cellulite too bad just yet. Well, that’s what I thought anyway. Then I got into the dressing room at Lord & Taylor’s and I was like, How in the hell are the backs of my arms looking all crusty? What is that jacked up elbow doing looking like that? Could my elbow really give me away? Is my elbow making me look 30? Wait, are those my thighs? Oh hell no.

I took off the gown and just stood butt naked (I'm nekkid!) in the three-way mirror for about ten minutes. Examining every single dimple. How could my back look fat when if I simply stretch and yawn I can see a rib? I reminded myself to Google body dysmorphic syndrome when I got home. Yes, I self-diagnose. Just two days ago, I found out that itching blisters on the palms of my hands were a weird form of eczema called dyshidrotic eczema. I actually have it. It’s a much better explanation than the one I created that goes: a spider bit my hands in the night and the venom spread from palm to palm. I have it, and I get it when I’m stressed out and when the weather changes. It’s true. Google is the best invention.

Now this cellulite. Have any of you got any suggestions? Besides pure cocoa butter. I’m already on that train. I’m willing to sleep in spandex shorts too so give me some other ideas. I want to ERADICATE it before it even begins.

I have to poke at the skin in a very specific way, or lie down with my legs in a strange position to get a really good look at it. You can't imagine how stupid I look. Or can you? J just looks over at me like I'm out of my mind. I kindly remind him that he is the one that truly benefits from my beauty product obsessions so he needs to quit looking at me like that. Regardless, I can see where there will be problems in the future.

I’m back on the gel regimen. Wack. Three weeks in and I can still poke and find the dimples. The application process is annoying too because the gel is sticky. I have to keep rubbing and rubbing and with the dyshidrotic eczema on my hands, it's no good. The friction, the itching, the burning -- damn it. I have to take a Benadryl before I even get to that part of the beauty regimen. The point is, the gel is sticky. If I wear shorts (why am I wearing shorts?) my thighs stick to my car seat and I am totally upset.

I don’t want to be obsessed with cellulite but I am. I'm not worried though. This too shall pass. I'll discover some other thing to obsess over and be done with it. Two weeks ago, it was JonBenet Ramsey. Read an 800-page book about her and spent all night on Google looking for other explanations. I'm now reading the Vincent Bugliosi book on OJ Simpson. OJ, however, has not captivated my attention the way JonBenet did so as a result, I am still thinking about cellulite.

I went with J’s mom to the beach today. She goes to a nice family friendly beach so I was checking out all the women to see what their legs looked like. Keep in mind, it’s summer time on Long Island and it seems to me that all the 50 – 60 year old women are teachers on vacation. Teachers, I say to myself, are a good set of women to which I should compare myself to. Not that teachers can’t be as hot as the celebrities staring back at me from the tabloids, but it’s just healthier to look at them as a base of comparison.

So I’m checking out all the legs and I’m seeing it, but somehow, on them it’s not the end of the world. Everybody has it. I saw exactly one older woman who did not have it. But she must have been some kind of Olympian or some shit. I find, though, that physical activity does not prevent cellulite. It just is.

Will tanning it help? Tanning is so bad, I know. But the truth is, I go right out in that sun and put a thick layer of dark tanning oil all over and lay my ass right there near the water, getting crispy. I will live to regret this, I know. And for what? For two weeks’ worth of using no concealer? I have actually stopped wearing makeup every day anyway. Who’s looking at me? Nobody. Where am I going? Nowhere. Might as well let the skin breathe. So, basically, I have no justification whatsoever for the tanning other than I like the way it looks. I’ll beg to differ ten years from now when I’m looking all leathery and sad. But I don’t heed the warnings. I have only myself to blame.

I went to the gay beach last week with my friend GCS.

I prefer a gay beach to any other beach. In Brasil even, it’s got to be the gay beach or no beach at all. Interestingly, I never see lesbians at the gay beach. Always body-conscious men, young and old, lying about (sometimes right on top of each other) with their see-through plastic Louis Vuitton bags. Or in Willie from the Real World Philadelphia’s case, his leather checkerboard Louis messenger bag. Gay men surely won't be looking at me or my cellulite.

Umhmm. I was lying on my stomach (read: future problem area) reading about cellulite and at the same time listening to GCS point out all the gay happenings. He told me that the man ten feet away from us, with his shirt on inside out and his hat backwards was actually sending out a signal. A signal? Yes, he said. That he was probably here waiting to meet someone he solicited online for crazy man sex. I said NO WAY. He said absolutely way and told me to just watch. Sure enough, later a man approached and he packed his little bags and off they were. Incidentally, we were leaving too and they did appear to be strangers for as they walked to the one man’s car, they were showing each other their tattoos and piercings. I was stunned that GCS may have been right to which he responded, “Girl please, this is the gay beach,” like I, somehow, have been living in oblivion for the past ten years. Well, I have been living in the boring hollows of heterosexual suburban life so how am I to know how to pick up the pick-up signals of gay men?

Everything I know about the sexual lives of gay men, I’ve learned from just flat out asking. Or I’ve learned from Men seeking Men on Craigslist and you know that’s not right. Is it wrong of me to be totally intrigued by it simply because of the disclaimer? It's not safe for work by the way, so cubicle friends, stay on track.

GCS said there is some depraved shit on there and told me not to go forming no opinions based on what’s there. (Duh!) He said, “Besides, ManHunt is so much more interesting.” Um. But. I. Don't. Is that an uncircum -- you know what, I like Craigslist better. Just words please and thank you.

Anyway, while we were at the beach, GCS said to me, “Oh hell no, is this a Real World reunion?”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

He pointed to way way off into the horizon and said, “There’s Willie!”

I didn’t bother looking as I said, “Girl please, Willie is a city person. He does not dare venture into the depths of fucking Long Island.”

GCS insisted, “It is Willie, Melissa. It’s him!”

I kept on reading about cellulite, tuned GCS right out.

As the suspected Willie drew closer, GCS stood right up and said, “It’s so him!”

Sure enough, it was Willie. Of all the days. A random Tuesday, an overcast Tuesday at that, on the gay beach in Long Island, there’s Willie’s ghostwriting ass.

I said hello and we hugged and he and his friend laid out right next to us.

We went off about Britney Spears. Willie brought a hairstylist friend who was just so offended by her weave during the Dateline interview that he almost couldn’t get the words out. Willie could not stop singing Christina’s Ain’t No Other Man. You’ve got style, you’ve got class. You’ve got soul, you’re badass. Then we talked about Wonder Showzen. Random.

We had a really nice time.

I didn’t want Willie to have to, ugh, ride a bus back to the train station so I drove him to my house to wait until the 5 o’clock train. We had cocktails early evening and then I took him and his friend to the train station. Isn’t that just funny?

Now what was I talking about? Yes, cellulite. This is an open letter. Send me some suggestions. And if you don’t have suggestions, send me some photos of hot celebrities with it, and I’ll like that too.

While we’re on that topic, remember I was talking about my elbow? Well, it is important to take care of your hands, your décolletage (per Coral's mom) and your elbows! These are age giveaways and if you don’t believe me, look here. Now you tell me, is Angelina Jolie really a mere 31or 32 years old with that elbow? She’s still fine, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying…

Now get to the suggestions! I need ‘em!

Posted by melissah at July 18, 2006 10:43 PM