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Who Stole my Lips?

It happened overnight, I swear. One day my lower lip was a plump, succulent strawberry ripe for the plucking. The next day, a withered leaf hanging on for dear life.

Hereís how I discovered this atrocity: I peered into the mirror and noticed this whitish line, or ridge, traveling just below the bottom of my bottom lip. What was this?

Back to the looking glass, I squinted and used my fingernails to gently pull down my lower lip, exposing 1/16 inch of the purplish pink skin that I had been accustomed to painting for 50 years.

And there it was: my lip has receded.

ďSo this is what the lip injections are all about,Ē I mused. ďNow Iíll have to start praying to the Botox fairy to ĎFill Ďer up!Ē

This could be a problem, though. First of all, one mistake and you could end up looking like Goldie Hawn did until she regained her senses and had her comical lips deflated. But Iíll be damned if Iím going to end up looking like Mary Tyler Moore, either. Her lips are so thin theyíre clownish and her grins resemble the death grimace (Iíd swear the word rictus fits here but my spell checker says no and I canít find it in the dictionary or thesaurus Ė help me!). Actually, I havenít seen a photo of her in a few years and sheís probably already remedied that. Iím sure sheíll let me know.

Then thereís the financial factor. Iím broke. And, oh, of course the pain factor. Iím a wuss.

All in all, I take care of the thinning lip factor by etching my lip liner where my lips used to be. And while it doesnít look entirely natural, itís a sight better than no lips at all.

The problem here is that my lips are getting so light that I will soon have no lip line to trace. Old age bleaches you out, you know. Maybe I can get just the outline of my lips tattooed and look like Dolly Parton: dark liner on the outside, light lipstick on the inside. Like a Hostess Ho-Ho.

Or maybe Iíll just quit giving lip service to this horror and age gracefully, which is an oxymoron if ever there was one . . .



Post Car Crash: Riding the Edge


A near death experience (NDE) can be the most liberating thing. Limning the edge of obliteration can be intoxicating. It makes us so aware of our aliveness. Like shadows on sunshine, death illuminates life.

Now I understand people who climb Half Dome or Mount Everest. Now I understand Sean Tucker, possibly the best aerobatic/stunt flyer in the world (whose story just happens to appear in my book StarWords).

The last time I felt this way was after motherís death. Paralleling my grief was the remarkable relief of knowing that the worst thing that could possibly happen had happened. And I survived it.

A few months later I returned to my ho-hum, autopilot consciousness of daily existence. However, the experience was not lost. It had pushed my spiritual growth up a notch.

All living things fight to live, live, live. Even sperm Ė think about it! What are the odds that one of those suckers ďtakesĒ with an ovum and human growth begins.

I mean, even bugs fight like crazy to live. Get eye level with them in your garden and observe. I will move on, so as not to become macabre and, besides, I donít know how this really fits in.

What I was saying is: the person who finally accepts death and is ready to die, is ready to live. And the golídarn (mom was fond of saying that) bummer is that we donít usually come to this enlightenment until weíre old.

But, oh, the ride! When we stop fearing death there is NOTHING to stop us from confronting a mean boss, bungee jumping, public speaking, etc. The WORST thing that can happen is that youíll die and since youíre not longer afraid of that, then, WHOOPEEE! Spend your money. Dance. Tell someone you love/hate them.

OK. That was mean. And Iíll tell what my crash has done for me: I feel more kindly toward people because life is so fragile. And weíre all doing the best we can, really, given our situation and history and genes. And because you canít (yet) really get into someoneís head or skin, you can never really judge their behavior.

Oh, Iím beginning to sound like an evangelist now so Iíll sign off! . . .

 

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