Rock the Silver

Blackberry withdrawal & the gray-haired beach babe

I just got back from a week of scuba diving in the Caribbean, and I have two things to report. The first subject is Blackberry withdrawal, and the second subject is gray-haired beach babes.

We all carry Blackberries in my line of work, and for most of us, they are somewhat of an electronic leash. I check mine all weekend and usually take it with me on vacation in case “anything comes up.” This time, I just said no. The Blackberry can recharge on the nightstand. I’m going to Cozumel! I thought it would be hard to sever the tie, so I started a diary at the airport.    

The Blackberry Diaries

Day 1 -- On the way to the airport. The Blackberry is at home. I have a strong urge to check my messages. I look out the window. My husband points out a restaurant called Twin Peaks. Except he calls it a breasturant. As we pass, I see their gigantic electronic sign advertises, “Really Perky Service.”

At the airport. Missing the instant stimulation of a new message. So much of it is minutia, but there’s still a thrill. Something for me! Now, I am forced to think about other things. Big things. My brain is expanding. I bought content-heavy reading material like In Style magazine and Club Dead – a Southern Vampire Novel. Plenty to do.

I may talk to my husband, who is making fun of me. He says, “For a buck, I’ll let you look at the numbers on my phone.”

Days 2-8 -- Blank. I wrote nothing! I did 10 dives, read seven books, hung out by the pool, sat out by the beach staring at the ocean, walked into town for dinner every night, walked back all sweaty and tipsy and went to bed early in the air-conditioned room. So much for Blackberry withdrawal! I tried to check it when I got back last night, and I had forgotten the password. I explained that to the guy at the help desk as he was resetting my password, and he said that means it was a real vacation.

Gray-haired beach babes

Onward to gray-haired beach babes. I saw only one other woman with gray hair, and she had that crazy-lady-I-don’t-care look. Long flowy skirt, reading glasses on a chain, plastic clip with funky molded flowers holding up what was probably gorgeous hair. She was ahead of us as we were boarding the return flight home. The plane was an hour late, and she asked every single crew member if they could explain to her why the plane was late. Maybe that's what you would do, but I don't think so.

The beach babes were mostly overweight Americans. There was one guy – I called him Mr. Atlas – who was in his late 60s probably and was totally buff. You could see that his physique took great sacrifice, and he pranced around proudly in his skimpy Speedo. Funny, his wife was your average older chubby lady, and they looked odd together. I told my husband, we’re not skinny-mini, but we’re not fat, we're reasonably fit and at least we match. The rewards of a lifestyle with well-chosen indulgences.

Which brings me to swimsuits. I had been so concerned about getting a modestly cut swimsuit, and now I realize what a waste of time that was. Women of all ages, sizes and shapes were wearing bikinis. My tankini looked almost frumpy, and the whole time I was thinking about how a bikini would feel. I don't think I've worn one since I was 19. Not that I would look particularly good in it, but I certainly couldn't look worse than what I saw, and I'm not even sure I care anymore. I just thought how cool it would be to feel so free. I practiced by not wearing my cover-up after the first day.

I grew to like my wavy salt water beach hair. The sun seems to have brightened up the silver. I'm a little too tan. Here's what I think: I have seen the gray-haired beach babe, and it is me. 

Men in mom jeans

Some folks are making fun of the “mom jeans” President Obama wore when he threw out the first pitch at the All-Star Game. They certainly weren’t a high-fashion item, but I thought they were kind of charming and school boyish. And he’s got the creds to get away with it. I mean, come on, leader of the free world?  He gets to wear what he wants.

But I’m feeling Michelle’s pain. She of great fashion sense. It must be painful to look so fab and discover you’re married to Steve Urkel. But again, wife of leader of the free world. I don’t think she’s sweating it.

I don’t sweat these things either. Wife of retired person who gets to sleep late every day. He has never been a fashionista, but he’s cute and he cooks. He grew up in Maine and now prefers Hawaiian shirts. We decide whether we will go to a restaurant by determining if he can wear shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Even in winter. This is his look, and he’s loving it.

He resists advice. I tried to tell him sneakers and anklets is not attractive, but he says it is comfortable and he likes it. I suggested sandals, maybe a sleek leather fisherman-style, and I got the one crazy eyebrow. 

But here is the worst: Banded bottom polo. I just look the other way.

So, is your man a stylish metrosexual or is he wearing the equivalent of mom jeans?  What’s the one thing that needs to go?

Perma Press for your skin

I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger on TV last night, and it was like looking at a zombie or something. What is up with his face? It’s all tight and shiny and weird. Frozen zombie? That sounds like a refreshing cocktail, but my husband said it’s Botox. 

Really? I’ve never had Botox. But at the same time, I hadn’t completely ruled it out for the future. There was this photo of me where I looked just a little too much like a shar-pei puppy, and I thought, better not be bad mouthing Botox just yet. 

So, I did a little research on Arnold and am unable to state conclusively whether it’s Botox or a facelift, but I did discover a new guilty pleasure called Awful Plastic Surgery. I was going to name names, but I don’t even know where to begin. 

Okay. Just one. Donatella Versace. Look for it under “Scary Celebrities.”

Not that I am opposed to any of this stuff. Certainly, people can do whatever they want to themselves. Seeing such horrible results does make you stop and think twice about tinkering with your face simply because it is starting to show signs of age. What’s the return on investment? Everybody knows how old you are.

I believe I'll embrace my wrinkles as I have embraced my silver hair. Aging is not for wimps, and I’m beginning to think, bring it on! This is not about surrendering. I read that some people don't want gray hair because they hold in their heads an image of themselves when they were at their best. And that's what they want to see in the mirror. Maybe that's why I don't have any issues with it. I haven't gotten to the best part yet! 

My strategy? Work hard. Play hard. Get plenty of exercise. Drink a lot of water. Moisturize. Seek adventure. Laugh until you snort. Wear snappy clothes and funky shoes and go to sleep at night knowing you gave it your best shot.

Personally, I’m having a great time.

Headbands!

I'm growing my hair from the super-short crop I was sporting earlier this year. Going for the bob, I think, but we'll see. Growing hair is never easy, but at least this time it is all my natural color. I've been playing around with headbands, and I think the results are pretty good.

The one thing I noticed in this picture is that my hair doesn't seem to have the moist healthy shininess of youth. Damn. Oh, that's right. I'm not young!

I also noticed it's a little flat on top. I am hoping both problems can be solved with "product." But then I wonder if our friend product is contributing to the dry crunchy dullness of age. Maybe I just need a little more length.

If you want to see beautiful long gray hair, which by the way is not exactly poofy, check out the pictures of Cindy and Yasmina at the Going Gray, Looking Great website. I just want to dunk my head in a vat of conditioner after seeing that.

Another point -- you can't tell from this picture, but I have a huge head. Honestly. Headbands from Target and other discount places are skull-crushing torture devices. I found super-comfortable and beautiful headbands by L. Erickson at France Luxe. Yes, they are expensive. But worth it, in my opinion.