In fact, I like Brazil so much, I’m hoping that, lexicographically speaking, “Brazilian” bikini wax is kind of like “French” Fries. No one really knows why it’s called Brazilian. But I’m guessing it’s more like French Kissing. Anyone who spent her Junior year abroad in Paris knows where that came from.  And it ain’t lexicography. Trust me on that.

What I don’t love, is the Brazilian Bikini Wax.

Remember that episode of Sex and the City where the girls all go to LA and Carrie gets waxed?  She’s surprised by what the waxer leaves her: nada.  nothing. zip.

It’s called a Brazillian, she tells Samantha and Miranda. Out here in LA, everybody’s doing it.

Well, here in NY everybody is, too.  And the other day, not on purpose, I came close.  First of all, ouch. And second of all, I don’t think so. Why am I so opposed? Here goes:

1. I am not a porn star. We all know about the skewed body image girls get when they are surrounded by images of impossibly thin models and ridiculously beautiful movie stars.  It’s bad enough that that’s the standard of beauty we’re supposed to live up to.

Now I’m supposed to aspire to look like a porn star, too?  Because that’s where this lack of pubic hair look comes from. Porn stars have been trimming and shaping “down there” forever.  But until now, “regular” women weren’t.  Now they are.   Really?  Is this what it’s come to?  We have to look like porn stars to be desirable? Yuck.

2. I am not pre-pubescent.  I find it hard to imagine that any mother of a girl anywhere near puberty would wax off all of her own pubic hair.  Because it’s saying that childlike genitals are sexually appealing. Maybe when you don’t have kids, or don’t have a girl, or don’t have a girl nearing that age, you don’t see it that way – but I do have a girl approaching that age.  And that men find that attractive? That has a name: pedophilia. What a sad, shocking, and upsetting thought.

3. It sends a bad message to young girls. What does it say to a child who is already uncomfortable about her changing body that her mother does everything in her power not to have hair exactly where she, the child, is getting it? Thatit’s so bad to have hair “down there” that her mother pays someone to rip the pubic hair off her body?

I’ll tell you what it says: your changing body is horrible.  Your changing body is bad.

Is that really the message we want to send?

There was an uproar recently over an article about Virgin Waxing: the practice of taking young girls to get their bikini lines waxed the moment hair appears.  Ostensibly, it is to prevent overgrowth in the future.  But a lot of women were outraged.  “It tells girls their changing bodies are bad and ugly” they claimed.

Well, where’s the outrage over grown women being sent the same message?  And then sending that same negative message themselves every time they lie on a table, remove their skivvies, spread their legs, and have some stranger slather them with hot wax and rip out every last one of their public hairs by the root?

Look, I’m all for shave and a haircut.  I’m all for a neatly trimmed look.  I don’t want  – to go back to a Sex and the City term – to have “a situation” down there.

But I also don’t want to look like a porn star or like a child.  And I don’t want my daughter to look like that either.  Who would?

The First Annual Swaggy Awards

Blogging makes you beautiful in so many ways: you get deeper through your self expression, you get more compassionate through blogging for a cause. Your inner self shines…ah, who am I kidding?   Blogging makes you more beautiful because you get a free beauty products. Of course, if the number of free beauty you got made you beautiful, I’d be Gwyneth Paltrow by now.  But every little bit helps. (I hope)

Hey, I’m over forty. A lot over.  I need all the help I can get.

Companies, however, don’t give me free stuff so I’ll look better, so I’ll stave off the inevitable end of being even remotely appealing to anyone under the age of 80, so I don’t look at my wrinkly knees while in downward dog and think “why yes! Yes I am a dog.” No, they give me free product in the hopes that I will write about it.

So I’m going to.  I’m awarding the Swaggies: Best Blogger Swag.(In the beauty category) Consider this full disclosure: Every thing I’m writing about in this post was given to me at some blogging event or another. There were other things too.  But I feel it best not to mention the “It’s a scarf! No, it’s sleeves” item I got a while back.  No need to dwell on that super stinky soap.  Maybe somebody out there likes smelling like furniture polish that’s been dipped in peppermint and chocolate.  Who am I to judge? And those flip fops that cut my feet? ‘Nuf said.

This is a list of the good stuff, acquired here and there.  And all of it destined to make me (and maybe you) fabulous.

The Swaggy for Best Eye Cream goes to:

Mama Mio Eye Know. This stuff saved me at Blogher.  I got it at a MomTrends event, and who knew how needed it would be. The sleepless nights, the long days.  My eyes looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman’s on a sunny day.  But just a dab of this stuff really made a difference.  Kind of miraculous difference. Pouffies gone.  Maybe temporarily, but that’s ok. The bottle is small enough to stick in my purse, and that’s just what I’ve been doing with it. Where I go, Eye Know goes.

The Swaggy for Overall Best Face Cream goes to:

Genics, by Avon.  This one I just got at SheStreams.  Mostly, when products claim that “over 90% of women saw visible improvement” blah blah blah, I end up being in the 10% that see nothing at all.  But this stuff really works.  My skin, after just two weeks, really does feel firmer, and – dare I say it – look a bit brighter over all. Amazing. But true.

The Swaggy for Best Packaging of a Beauty Product goes to:

Brazilian Peel by Advanced Home Actives.  They had me at faux-syringe.  Seriously, this is an at home Glycolic peel designed so that you can’t leave it on too long. You cannot end up burning your skin like Samantha in that episode of Sex and the City. It’s idiot proof.  I’m not sure if I saw dramatic results – but the design makes you feel like you’re doing something very seriously good for you skin. I do think it helped a bit, and- had my skin not already been used to the Glycolic pads my dermatologist gives me, it would have made a bigger difference.

The Swaggy for Best Exercise Video that is Completely NOT Annoying goes to:

Rodney Yee‘s Daily Yoga.  I love Gaiam.  I love Rodney Yee.  And I am not saying this becasue they gave me a $30 DVD.  I like Gaiam because they offer REAL yoga DVD’s by actual yogis – not gym bunnies who call chatarunga “that push uppy thing.” I like it because while I love Yoga, I don’t often have the time for a 90 minute class.  But a DVD, I can do. I take my (paid for) Gaiam Mat, block and belt, and go to it.  And there’s nobody better to do it with than Rodney Yee. Trust me.

The Swaggy for Best Badly Named but it Works Product goes to:

Lady Anti Money Butt powder. Yes, you read that right. What they’ve inexplicably decided to name it would certainly have kept me from buying it.  But I like it.  It has calamine lotion in it.  Soothing, Simple. Good.

The Swaggy for Best Make-Up I Never Thought I’d Like:

NYX.  Turqoise, lavender?  These are not eyeshadow colors I would ever remotely consider.  But they were free!  So I gave them a shot.  Love ‘em. Love how they go on.  Love how all I need is the teeniest, teeniset bit of that turquiose along my top lashes to make my eyes pop.  The lipstick was also a funky bright pink. Love.

The Swaggy for Best Socks goes to

Socks you say?  Aren’t socks, well…socks?  No, actually, they’re not. The Hanes Comfort sport sock I got at last year’s Getting Gorgeous event are so fabulous it’s weird.  Truly weird. They are super cushiony without being overly thick. Go figure.

And while we’re on the subject of feet -

The Swaggy for Best Beauty Product I didn’t know I wanted goes to:

Fresh Feet wipes.  Refreshing. Minty. Love wiping my feet after a long day of walking around NYC in flip flops. Yuck interupted. (And a shout out to Mama Mio’s Lucky Legs peppermint leg lotion. Who knew a lotion really could make your tired legs less tired?)

The Swaggy for “I used to be too much of a snob to shop here” goes to:

It’s a tie! Lands End and Ann Taylor.  Let’s face it, neither of these two brands is cutting edge…or particularly chic.  When I think Lands End, I think “handsome woman with cooking mitts for hands.”  When I think Ann Taylor I think “secretary on a budget.” Wrong.  Well, sort of wrong.  Lands End is still kind of– handsome.  But I do love my new LE chinos.  Low rise, but not too low rise, stretch, but not tight.  Plus, they have vanity sizing, always a plus! Ann Taylor must have changed while I wasn’t looking.  While they still have plenty of secretarial (oh, sorry administrative assistant) garb, they also have surprising hip and affordable clothes. Who knew?  Thanks to MomTrends once again!

And the Swaggy for Best Beauty Swag I didn’t even get goes to:

Zumba for Xbox Kinect.  Now, I know from their press materials that they like to be referred to Zumba Fitness – not just Zumba.  And maybe if they ever send me a game I’ll oblige.  But all I got was a demo on site.  It was fun, it was a workout, it was nothing I would ever do in public but really might at home.  So are you listening?  Zumba Fitness people?  This is swag I really want.

There’s more: the Vintage Body Spa Grapefruit Peppermint body creme is to die for. And it’s organic. The portable Colgate Wisp toothbrushes from Blogher 2010 are a life saver on overnight plane trips. The Planet Botanticals Fair Trade Organic coffe body scrub really does help me wake up int he morning. And Boiron’s Oscillococsinum, while unpronouncable, helped my entire family stave off colds last year. (No one looks beautiful with a runny nose.)

So there you have it: The Swaggies.

May the winners all know how much I appreciate them. And not just because they were free.

One of My Arty Farty Photos

I am never going to love my body just the way it is, and that’s OK.  Let me explain:

Yesterday, I read this post about a woman struggling with her post-baby body.  What struck me about the piece was that this struggle is new for her. She talks about how she never had body image issues until she had her second child.

Wow.

I cannot remember a time when I did not have body image issues. Well, maybe that’s not completely true – I distinctly remember a time in fourth grade when I was sashaying up the school steps in what I thought was a fashion-model way, when I realized to my horror that I wasn’t alone – my teacher, Mrs. Richardson was there watching. “You are quite the fashion plate!” she said. And while I had no idea what that meant, I knew it was good.  And I sashayed even more.

But that was it.  The last moment in memory when I wasn’t embarrassed by or self-conscious about my body.

Just yesterday morning I had breakfast with my high school boyfriend. When I carefully ordered a carb-free breakfast, he asked about it. “I just want to lose 10 pounds.” I said.

“Funny,” he answered.  “I remember having that same conversation with you in 1992. You’ve got to get over those body image issues.”

And that’s when it hit me.  I am not going to get over my body issues.  The last time I felt less awful (not good, mind you) about my body, was after I had swine flu and pneumonia two years ago.  I lost eight of the 10 pounds I’ve been trying to lose for 20 years, and gushed about the silver lining of having a potentially deadly illness.

It’s pathetic, I know.

I’ve tried to love my body the way it is.  I’ve read articles in women’s magazines that tout body acceptance on one page and photos of emaciated super-models on the next.  I’ve done that exercise when you look at yourself naked and pick one part of your body  you think is beautiful. (I picked my eyes. Not a body part, but it was the best I could do.) I even posed for artsy-fartsy naked photos a few years back in the hopes of feeling empowered and seeing the beauty in my own human form. It didn’t quite work out that way.  As photographs, they are lovely. As me, not so much. Those expensive pictures are hidden in a drawer somewhere waiting for the day my body is so old and decrepit that in the photos, it looks great by comparison.

So I’ve decided to try something new.  I’ve decided to accept that I’m never going to accept my body the way it is.  Quite frankly, it’s a relief.  Attempting the impossible has been exhausting.

It’s kind of like agreeing to disagree with a friend.  You’re not going to change your mind and suddenly decide that, why, yes, water-boarding is a great idea after all, but neither are you going to harp on it, or let it ruin your friendship.

The fact is, for more than 30 years I’ve felt uncomfortable – to varying degrees – with my looks. Why, now that age, gravity, and the inevitable crepe-i-fication of my skin has taken over, do I think that’s going to change?  It won’t. But I can accept that. Take my nose (please!). I don’t like my nose.  I’ve never like my nose.  But I’m not interested in surgery, and I don’t obsess about it.  It’s my nose. Move on.

I don’t see why that same tactic can’t work with my body image: I don’t like my body, but, 30 + years in, it’s clear that I don’t dislike it enough to starve myself/exercise hysterically/pay someone to surgically suck out the fat. So…move on.

I won’t quit railing against the male dominated media landscape that dictates women strive for an impossible physical ideal.  I won’t be happy that my daughter is growing up in a world where 11 year olds go on diets. I will try to instill in her a positive self image.  But for me – it’s just not gonna happen.  I’d like it to.  But there are a lot of things I’d like. I’d like Sarah Palin to do an Arianna Huffington, become a liberal, and use her inexplicable appeal to the masses for good instead of evil.  But that’s not going to happen either.

Maybe it’s defeatist.  Maybe I should figure out a way to love myself for who I am.  But,isn’t  that what I’m doing? Isn’t acceptance, after all, love?

I’m hopeful that this new approach to non-body acceptance will make the fact that I’ll still be unhappy with my body a non-issue. I’m hoping that it will turn out to be a road to not having that same conversation with my high school boyfriend 20 years hence.  Already, it’s liberating – like a weight has been lifted, even if no weight has been lost.

And if you don’t like my approach.  If you still think I should try to love my body, see its beauty, well, I can accept that.  And we’ll just have to agree to disagree.

At least it’s blog fodder, I thought.  I can write about how everyone always talks about how easy it is to lose weight in the summer – but I gain.  I can talk about how everyone says living in the city is unhealthy, but the second I get to the country I stop exercising and get my very own suburban sprawl.

And then I paused – because something about it rang a bell.  I felt like I’d written it before.  You know why?  I had.  Twice, as a matter of fact.

Yes, it’s true.  This is the third year in a row that I’ve been out in the country for the summer and gained weight. And it’s the third year in a row that I’m shocked, I tell you.  Simply shocked! That such a thing could happen.

In a post called “My XL Problem with Suburban Sprawl,” I wrote about how much time I spent that summer sitting on my every-growing ass.  In another post,(and another year) I wrote about how my parents meal-time extravaganzas had taken their toll.

And here I am, year three.  Still surprised that it’s happening all over again.

What’s really shocking is my stunning inability to recognize the reality that driving everywhere whilst sitting on my ass + eating big meals + not owning a decent scale = Love handles and a lovely double chin.

Oh.  And back fat.  Gotta love the back fat.

You know the funny thing?  I went shopping yesterday and bought a pair of pants…in a size eight.  Size eight?  ONE of my ass cheeks is a size eight right now.  Vanity sizing is NOT helping me.  It is just deluding me into believing that I am still  – 7.5 pounds later –  a size eight.

Ha.

Maybe I should put on a bathing suit and look in the mirror.

That should be a reality check.

And if I faint from the reality – don’t wake me up.  Maybe I’ll lose a few pounds if I stay unconscious through a meal or two.

Not because of  my saggy knees, or brown spots, or my elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades.  No, I am old because I am horrified by what “young girls” are wearing. (plus, I refer to anyone under thirty as a young girl – I’m old for sure!)

With summer-like weather upon the city, (though this week things seem to have cooled down) everyone is letting everything hang out.  Manhattan is suffering from TMI of the body: and frankly, I don’t want to see it!

I mean, is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently one is tempted to insert a coin, grab your arm, and go for the jackpot?

Did I miss the memo that said your skirt must be so short that when you raise your arm to wave to your friend across the street, you reveal a thong so deeply wedged in it reappears on the other side?

Did someone forget to mention to me that tank tops must be worn below the bra line, so that all you need is a glass of mead and some rotten teeth to accurately approximate a Medieval serving wench?

Did I neglect to read the e-mail about displaying one’s love handles at every opportunity? Or the one about how the low-hanging pants once exclusively associated with plumbers have somehow become a fashion trend?

What ever happened to keepin’ it covered? If you’re twenty-something, well, OK.  I don’t love it, but at least you’re twenty something. It’s the thirty, forty, even fifty-somethings wearing belly shirts that really get me.  Here’s a newsflash:  I don’t care how fit you are:  unless you’re a supermodel, a movie star or a porn star, once you’ve given birth, nobody wants to see your stomach.

Plus, the flesh on display is not always taut – even when it is young.  I suppose I should think it’s great that these girls feel confident enough about their bodies that they don’t care that they’re muffin’-topping it around town.  But I don’t even like seeing the svelte ones so scantily clad the mother in me wants to run across the street and hand them a robe.  Why on earth would I want to see the pudgy ones busting out of their hip-huggers?

When I was a teenager, Preppy was in.  We must have looked ridiculous, a bunch of frizzy haired Jewish girls in multiple polo shirts with the collars turned up, as if we thought the real Wasps might not notice we were poseurs if we piled on the polos with aplomb. Our look was Wasp-wanna-be.

Today, Preppy for men is still in, but for young women, the look, evidently, is now “hooker with good highlights.”  For example, the other day in Zabars I saw a polo-wearing college boy with his short-short wearing, bra displaying, tummy flashing, $400 haircut sporting girlfriend. It looked like a casting call for a new movie: Preppy and the Parentally-supported Porn Star.

I know it’s judgmental.  I know I shouldn’t care what others wear.  But I do care.  I care because I don’t want my daughter thinking that objectifying herself is a good thing.  I don’t want my son getting the idea that women are adornments, or sex objects, or are there for his viewing pleasure.  And in case you think that sounds like I’m abdicating responsibility for raising him right, think about this: pit a mother’s admonitions to respect girls against an actual, buttocks flashing female…and guess who wins.

Look, I’m all for women reveling in their sexuality. But reveling and revealing are two different things. This physiological TMI offends me as a woman.  It sets a bad example for my kids.But mostly, it makes me hope and pray that the fashion cycle keeps turning, and the Preppy look returns to prominence by the time my daughter hits puberty.

Because by then, if she tries to go out of the house looking like a runaway who’s fallen in with a bad pimp…well I’ll be too old to do anything about it.

Of course by the time the show aired I was already married, and by the time it ended I already had two kids, but still, her life was close enough to what my reality had been – the glamorous, better dressed version of my reality – that even with its excesses, the show rang true.

But here we are, on the cusp of a new Sex and the City movie, and I can’t help but wonder….why is it that my life now centers around organizing my synagogue’s High Holy Days, cleaning up after the dog, and packing up the kids for sleepaway camp, while Carrie and the gang still have lives that include gallivanting across the desert in designer duds?

Read the rest of this post on New York City Moms blog by clicking here.

Why else would I have cut off my hair, gone Pole Dancing and and taken a trapeze class all in the last month? Yep, that’s me on the trapeze…though not me (I mean , seriously) on the pole.

I think it all started with my 7th annual 39th Birthday. You know, one birthday nearer to “closer to 50 than to 40.”  One birthday closer to “invisible to men under the age of 70.” Closer to a serious debate on whether or not to get Botox. Closer, let’s face it, to the complete demise of my face. Is it just me, or is it true that every year, the day after your birthday, you develop a new physical flaw?  The day after my fortieth, I noticed my first age spot. The day after my forty-first: two little creases between my brows.  Forty second? Wrinkly knees.

Hair cut?  It’s a wonder I didn’t shave my head like Brittany Spears.

My mid-life crisis management began simply enough, I had a (free) facial at the Dermalogica store in Soho. (Which I wrote about already. Read it here.)

My next plan was to distract myself.  So I had a party.  Or – to be more exact, Nintendo had a party that just happened to be at my house. (Full disclosure: Nintendo sponsored the party, paid for the food, the party favors, and demo-ed the Wii’s internet capabilities and relationship with Netflix.) Mind you, it wasn’t a birthday party, which only serves to remind you that you’ve aged.  It was a Wii party.  Though that comes with it’s own set of problems.

See, while in life I think of myself as relatively coordinated (as long as balls, bats, and nets are not involved), in Wii world, I have bad balance, no hand eye coordination, and would never, ever have been issued a driver’s license.  My kids, on the other hand, (who will not be issued driver’s licenses for another seven years,) cruise along the Wii highway with ease.  This makes me think that were  I younger, I would just pick up a Wii remote and win the Indy 500. My Wii incompetence is indicative of my advanced age.

But the Nintendo people knew their audience.  For the kids, they downloaded a game onto the Wii  that seemed to me to be more complicated than Health Care Reform, but that my kids instantly picked up. For the adults, they downloaded a Quiz Show type game that required  virtually NO Wii skills whatsoever!  I even won.

I felt younger already.

Still — that birthday was looming, and I needed something more drastic than cutting off my hair or treating my enlarged pores.  So I went pole dancing with a friend at  Sheila Kelley’s S Factor, because. let’s face it, nothing says sexy like a 45 year old woman swinging from a pole.

How did this happen? I’ve joined this new site called Groupon which, once a day, emails me a group coupon for something in NY (FYI: they may have the service for your city, too.). Sometimes it’s restaurants, or spas, or flowers.  But this time, it was pole dancing, and with the same “I don’t know what I was thinking” spirit in which I posed for….art photos as a gift to my husband for our tenth anniversary, I signed up.

Sheila Kelley’s S Studio in NY (they are all over the country! Go Figure!) is all about women.  Empowering women, making them feel safe and in control of their bodies and their sexuality. They take all this very seriously.  But while trying to follow my incredibly perfect-bodied instructor Barbara’s instructions to touch my “body and discover something new about it,” I found it hard not to giggle.

My body has been around for 45 years.  With the possible exception of my stomach – which has been off limits to all human contact since 1977, I’d say it’s all been discovered.  Still, I was there, so I “explored” myself.  Though, something tells me I wasn’t supposed to discover (or pay attention to) the newly acquired fleshy inner-tube around my middle, or the sudden crepe-i-ness of my arms. I was still exploring, even if I was tempted to abandon ship and mutiny against Captain Age-a-lot.

There was more to it than just self-loving in public. Pole Dancing, evidently, is an art. You have to warm up. You have to learn a particular walk. (I almost fell over — but that’s just me.) You have to writhe just so. You have to stick out your butt.  A lot. And most important: you have to be able to STOP giggling.

I did.  Mostly.  I strutted and walked and gyrated with the other mom-aged women in the class.  I did the very loosely choreographed free dance, which included rubbing myself up against a wall and then sliding down it, crawling across the floor, and standing up – butt first – from a squat position. I even learned my first pole trick: The Firefly.  But I can’t tell you what it is, because Sheila Kelley Students have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Suffice it to say that the best thing about  Pole Dancing ( I don’t know why I feel like it should be capitalized.  It just seems THAT big!) was that I got to do it in a room with no mirrors (all the studios are mirror free) so I can let myself believe I didn’t look ridiculous doing it.

Had I been able to see myself, I no doubt would have run from the room in horror.  But as it was, I felt the teeniest bit sexy, swung on the pole, and had fun. (Though the bruises on my legs lasted a week.) Would I sign up for more?  Barbara gave the sales pitch after class: if we signed up for the series we’d learn more tricks! We’d feel sexier!  We’d hang upside down from the pole!  We’d learn lap-dancing!  That was it for me — you have to LEARN how to lap dance? I needed another adventure.

Trapeze.

But to read about that, (and see more pictures) you’ll have to come back tomorrow for part 2.

The Sleek Dermatologica Store

I have often been annoyed at the fact that while I spend a fair amount of time writing this blog, I earn a whole lotta nothing for doing so. My friend from Beccarama told me that her husband says that there’s no way a whole bunch of men would be writing all of this stuff for diapers bags. They would have figured out how to make money out of this blogging thing by now. Or they would have stopped.

Occasionally, however, some little extra comes along that makes it all worthwhile. For me, that little extra was a free mini spa treatment at the slick flagship Dermalogica store in SOHO. (And that’s the full disclosure part: They invited me down, gave me a glass of water, a tour of the small but super sleek space, a mini facial, and a bag of sample size goodies from their own line.)

The reason this particular freebie made me feel like the blogging isn’t all for naught, is that it came just before my 45th birthday. (thank you, thank you. no gifts, please.) And you know what happens after 40, don’t you?  Every year the day after your birthday, you notice a new physical flaw.  The day after my fortieth, I noticed my first age spot. The day after my forty-first: two little creases between my brows.  Forty second? Wrinkly knees.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to 45.  So anything that promised to pamper me and improve my skin at the same time was time well spent. Plus,  my little Dermalogica experience, was a mini treatment – what they call a Microzone treatment, – and it lasted only 20 minutes.  To some, that might be enough, but I’ve never been one of those people who could spa for hours on end.  I don’t want people poking and prodding me (however skillfully) for more than about — well – 20 minutes.   If you want the full hour long thing, they do that too — and in a super cool looking Pod.”" (no kidding!)  But in terms of time and lack of being poked-ness, the microzone thing rocks.

Dermalogica offers several different targeted microzone treatments (this picture to the right is where you get them. If you want privacy – it’s not for you. But it’s just your face. Get over it!):

• Flash exfoliation / resurface, smooth, brighten
• • Eye rescue / brighten, firm, revitalize
• • Lip renewal / smooth your smile
• • Blackhead relief / clear and prevent breakouts
• • Rapid spot clearing / speedy breakout recovery
• • Hand repair / heal rough hands
• • Men’s skin fitness / make shave problems history

I chose the Flash Exfoliation.  But there was no rubbing and scrubbing here.  There was a lot of talk about cell rejuvenation, and vitamin C production, and the effect of gamma rays on man in the moon marigolds. (Ok, maybe not that, but a lot of scientific skin talk that made me want to respond with one big “whaaaaa?”) And there was a lot of extremely gentle massaging with the either lightly scented or completely unscented (not unscented which really means chemically smelling, but REALLY unscented) Dermalogica products.

I remember once when I went to a Yoga retreat in upstate New York, my roommate telling me that she didn’t believe in facials. What, like they’re the tooth fairy or something?  But I sort of agreed.  It’s nice to be massaged and coddled, but does it really make a difference?  In a word: yes.  I’ve already written about my (not at all freebie related) Avon Regenerist products doing wonders for my eyes, but this facial just put me over the edge: I’m a believer.

After it was over, and for the few days since, my skin looks brighter and clearer, and just plain better.  Why, I might even say that I don’t look a day older than 44.

My friend (and prom date) Billy Kolber, from Billy Knows Best, thinks otherwise.  He’s been an Avon Man for years, (f you click over to his site, he happens to have an Avon post up right now!) and he insists that Avon spends more on product research than just about anyone, and their products are therefore more effective and better overall. Plus, they give a lot back to women and the community.  Not bad.

Anyway, because Billy really does know best a lot of the time, I decided to try out Avon’s latest best product ever (they seem to call every new product the best one ever).  It’s called Reversalist, and here’s what Avon has to say about it on their website.

“…wrinkles are a result of micro-injuries to the skin, so AVON studied how skin heals. As part of the repair process, the body produces Activin. 5 groundbreaking years in development , exhaustive research, testing & review has resulted in an unprecedented discovery by AVON scientists, how to activate this key repair molecule. Formulated with Activinol Technology to help reactivate skin’s repair process to recreate fresh skin & help dramatically reverse visible wrinkles….”

First off, may I just say: Avon people: you need a proof reader, or at least someone with minimal grammatical knowledge writing your stuff.  The little paragraph above has a few weird punctuation things, and the part of it I didn’t use has such an awful, incomprehensible  sentence in it that I’m hoping it was just an typing error.  Seriously Avon — you’re huge. Spend a few bucks for someone with a college degree.

But I digress.

Bottom line: I bit the bullet and bought the four products that are the base of the Reversalist system:  Serum, Day Cream, Night Cream, and Eye Cream, and I really do see a difference.  My skin immediately felt incredibly smooth.  Weirdly smooth.  But good.  That degree of smoothness didn’t last forever, but I think that for at least several hours after applying it, my skin has a sort of sleek feeling that I’m sure it once had, but I was too young to appreciate!

But the biggest thing is the eye cream.  The thing that’s upsetting me the most lately (skin wise, anyway) is how splotchy I’ve become. Nothing says aging hag more than a bunch of brown spots on your face. And my eyes?  I look like I’m wearing permanent brown eyeshadow….and not in a good way. After three weeks of religiously using the products, I can honestly say, the discoloration on my lids is noticeably better. (at least to me) The giant age spot on my nose?  Not so much.  But I’ll take what I can get, and brighter eyes make your whole face look younger.

As for wrinkles, I guess I can’t really say.  I’m not particularly wrinkled (finally, an upside to having oily skin and acne in my teen years!) but I do think that overall, my skin just looks and feels…better.  My neck is pretty much past redemption – but that’s what turtlenecks and scarves are for.

I do find that a lot of products work for a while, and then as your skin gets used to them, they don’t work anymore (totally unscientific, just how I think it happens).  So it’s possible that in three months, I’ll be right back where I started.  But for now: this stuff works.  Really.

When I bought it, it was a starter kit, but I had to buy full sized products.  I just checked the website, and they are selling a sample size starter kit with everything but the serum.  So why not give it a shot?  For $10 it isn’t a big risk, and you’ll get enough product to see if it works for you.

Oh, and one more thing, just to be clear:  I didn’t get ANY freebies for writing this.  I have no relationship with Avon whatsoever.  I bought everything with my money, and wanted to put in my own two cents.

Let me know if you like it — or if you have a not ridiculously expensive product that you think works.  I need all the help I can get.