Tag Archives: beauty

Portrait of a Lukewarm Apology to Long Island

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It’s true that, in the past, I’ve said some unflattering things about Long Island. Things like:

“It’s a 118 mile long shopping plaza.”

“It’s a 118 mile long parking lot.”

“I don’t understand how there are enough people in America, never mind in Long Island alone, to keep this many nail salons and tattoo parlors in business.”

“It’s a 118 mile long commercial for men’s hair gel.”

“There are only two things that I like about it, and that’s because I’m generous enough to make ‘pizza’ and ‘Italian food’ two separate categories.”

(The last one isn’t quite true. There are actually four things that I like about Long Island, but the comedic timing works better with the symmetry of two.)

Today, I (gulp) want to give Long Island some credit.

It is possible to find natural beauty on Long Island, if you know where to look. Take the following photos:

Now you might be thinking, “Okay, but these photos were taken on the North Fork. That’s practically a different planet from the rest of Long Island.”

I’d have to agree with you there.

But consider these photos taken not a mile from my apartment:

Yup. Beauty. On Long Island. It’s true.

So I hope you’ll forgive me for my sometimes negative portrayal of the area. It isn’t all bad.

But it isn’t all great, either.

For instance, this is what I’d always thought a sunrise looked like:

And this is what Long Island calls Sunrise Highway:

But at the end of the day, at least I don’t live in New Jersey.

(kidding, kidding)

Does Anybody Look Good in a One-Piece?

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Does anybody look good in a one-piece bathing suit?

I can remember a time not too long ago when I thought even a tankini was frumpy, but I’ve recently taken up swimming as exercise, and bikinis just aren’t built for laps. After a few sessions of clutching shifting material to my body while simultaneously trying not to drown, I decided to silence the protesting sixteen year old within and spring for the one-piece.

Yesterday, I took my spankin’ new Speedo out for its maiden voyage, and was startled by an unpleasant surprise in the locker room: my reflection.

It was positively, absolutely, the most unflattering article of clothing I’ve ever shimmied myself into. Inside its spandex prison, my curvy figure looked oblong. It made my torso appear stumpier than usual and flattened my ass-ets. I looked like a Saran-wrapped potato.

I didn’t recognize the dowdy person gazing back at me with disgust. She was a stranger.

Staring back at me was not the bikini donning gal who boldly bears her bronzed skin and unabashed laugh to the free world (ahem, me). Staring back at me was a woman who pays bill; whose jeans used to fit better; who shops at Ann Taylor; who wears sensible shoes; who prefers to be in bed at 9:30; who can’t have a glass of wine paired with marinara sauce without getting heartburn. Staring back at me was a wife.

All right, I may have accidentally just described myself. Let’s up the ante:

Staring back at me was a woman late on mortgage payments whose kids had been up all night vomiting; a woman who loves her family, but only likes them occasionally; a woman who says things like, “Go ahead, cry all you want. Mommy isn’t here right now,” while locking herself in the bathroom to watch an episode of The View on abc.com.  Staring back at me was a woman who fantasizes about Clint Eastwood while making love to her husband.

This bathing suit was a cruel time machine to a future I’d rather avoid.

Alas, it gets worse. As I shuffled shamefully into the pool room, a lifeguard– who also happens to be a student I advise– greeted me an enthusiastic, “Hey, Mrs. Dillon!”

And I wanted to push him straight into the deep end because, in those three well-intentioned but sorely mistaken words, he confirmed my fear. I was an adult to him– a Mrs. Last Name. To this student, I was a person for whom wearing a one-piece was appropriate.

So, please. Tell me this could have happened to anybody. Tell me that nobody looks good in a one-piece bathing suit.

Well, except maybe her. She is no Mrs. Last Name.

What to do when my beauty expires….

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My beauty clock is ticking. Not just because I’m getting older, but because five years ago, a hex was put on my face. It happened in a university cafeteria.

A young Latino gentleman (of a culture that prizes female allure above health and happiness) was possessed by a vision.

“Alena, you’re pretty now, but you’ve got some deep smile lines. And in five years….” Then his face twisted in disgust as if somebody pulled back a bandage to reveal grotesque stitches. “You better buy some anti-wrinkle lotion or something.”

My fellow diners just blinked, stunned by the gravity of my foretold fate.

It may sound like a cruel divination, but I was grateful. Now I had the opportunity to take the appropriate precautions. And I have. As per his recommendation, I’ve purchased Oil of Olay Age Defying Series by the Costco container. I’ve done facial exercises to stimulate muscles. And, most importantly, I’ve secured a husband before the last grain of sand in the hourglass of my attractiveness drops.

Phil is going to have quite a surprise come November (the fulfillment of my remaining five years, when it is said that I’ll shrivel into a hag) when the clock strikes dinnertime and I prune up like a fairytale evil queen whose time is up.

I better use the next seven months wisely before the princess is cursed into a witch. Instead of enjoying a death row prisoner’s last meal, I’ll have to take advantage of my last free drink, last held door, and/or last forgiven speeding ticket.

So, if you like the way I look now, you better take a picture. According to the enchantment, even an etch-a-sketch will last longer than my smooth skin. To complete my look, I’ll have 3 cats, 2 frogs, and a raven by December.