Things to be Paranoid
About
“Do I have any bats in the cave?”
My friend asks this as she tilts her head back so I can
inspect the insides of her nostrils.
“Gross,” I say, but check anyway.
“Looks empty from here,” I say. “I've never heard that term
before.”
“Oh it’s a family thing,” she adds. “I’ve said it forever
with my kids.”
Wow, I think, isn’t blowing your
nose enough? Doesn’t that dislodge those nasty cave dwellers? Helpless I begin
obsessing about my bats? What about
all the bats in my cave that have
hung on undisturbed in public? Racking my brain I think when, where, and how
might my bats have been visible to others. Oh my God, I think, the dentist, my
poor dentist! Not only does he have to deal with plaque, bad breath, rotting
gums, and diseased teeth, he must also have to deal with swarms of bats in
thousands of caves. I wonder if that was part of his dental training. I can
hear his professor now, “Just so you know,” she will say, “while you are
working on a patient's mouth you might get distracted by the contents of said patient’s
nose. This you must learn to ignore. Some people are just clueless buffoons who
don't have the decency to properly eradicate the contents of their sinuses
before lying down in your chair. I know this may sound unimaginable, but it
happens—forewarned, forearmed.” I realize that my mother and father have failed
me yet again by neglecting to educate me on this crucial etiquette. Note to
self, e-mail children immediately regarding “bats in the cave.”
More Things to be Paranoid
About
I'm thumbing through a catalog of
mostly groovy stuff like yoga-toes socks, and Brazilian Butt DVD’s when I come
upon a picture of a woman with this flesh colored patch on her chest. It’s
V-shaped. The bottom point sits just between her breasts, and the wide top fans
out below her neck. Apparently, if you wear this patch at night, the wrinkles
on your chest will magically disappear. Who knew there were wrinkles on one's
chest? I knew that turkey-wobble neck lines were a later-in-life issue. And
actually have done extensive research in People magazine to confirm this
observation - the older the actress, the higher her neckline. But it never
occurred to me that a wrinkly sternum might be awaiting me too. Thank goodness
I became aware of this essential product. It was on the same page as many,
many, many, hair removal gadgets, saggy eyelid creams and kegel muscle
exercisers—a virtual bonanza for ridding oneself of all things unwanted or
droopy.
More Thoughts on More
Things to be Paranoid About
I thought I was ready to go gray,
turns out I'm not. I’m not ready to look like my wild haired grandmother just
waking from her nap. But covering all my gray at once makes me feel like a
liar-liar-pants-on-fire so my hair guru, Michael, has introduced me to the
wonders of high-lighting. Hide most of the grey with just a hint of
sophistication. I thought wearing a bra that lifts and separates was all that mattered, but evidently that’s not
the case either. Turns out not only is it what your boobs look like from the
front, but also whether the bra cuts into the flesh on your back creating
"back fat." What the hell is back fat? Aren’t those rolls by my waist
enough?
As I shimmy into my Not Your Daughter’s Jeans, pretending, like
the ad says, that I’m “one size smaller,” I can’t help but wonder what other
etiquette and fashion disasters might be out there waiting to befall me. I’ve
heard hushed stories whispered over lattes about poor so-and-so who suffers
from VPL–Visible Panty Line. I’ve learned that one way to eradicate this offending
visage is to wear a thong. But have you ever actually worn a thong? There is no
way in hell I can carry on a rational conversation while wearing one of those uber-aberrant
pieces of clothing. Instead of sharing coherent thoughts I have to use all of
my concentrative powers to keep my hands from pulling and tugging and grabbing
at the rubber band strapped between my butt-checks. I mean really – is this
what women’s underwear has come to? Give me granny panties any day.
Final
Thoughts on Things to be Paranoid About
I find it quite disturbing that I
can go through life without any awareness of how my ignorance might be grossing
other people out. I thought the crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes were all
the wrinkles I had to worry about. Turns out they’re not. My chest may be
puckering as I write. I thought all I had to do was brush my teeth before going
to the dentist. Turns out I should be Roto-Rootering my nostrils as well. These
faux pas, among the millions of others I’m sure I’m committing daily, cost me
hundreds of dollars in wine and take hours and hours to consume it. I know I
shouldn’t care, but I do. I admit to my shallowness. So, if you encounter me at
one of the venues I haunt, like the podiatrist’s office or the colonoscopy
suite, and you notice something negligent about my appearance or demeanor,
please do me the kindness of pointing it out. I will be sure to thank you from
the very bottom of my saggy and wrinkled heart.
