I’m not rich, but having a warming mattress pad makes me feel like I am.
 
Now, right at bedtime, I turn on a plastic dial near my pillow, which has heat settings between one and 20. A few minutes later, a perfectly even, toasty temperature has enveloped the sheets underneath me. The Hubster keeps an identical gauge, also close to his head, on number one. But since I’m always colder, I start at number 12 and during the night, work my way down to a four. 
 
In any case, I fall asleep, and stay asleep, a lot faster and a lot longer.
 
I never knew mattress warmers existed until well into adulthood.
 
This lack of information could be because I grew up in Southern California. In fact, I had no knowledge of flannel sheets until I was in my 30s. That being said, my mother did join the electric blanket craze when I was a teenager, buying a pastel one for each bed, then carefully packing them in their original boxes once spring came around.
 
Still, I never felt entirely comfortable using one. They absolutely kept me warm on top. But those fat coils full of electrical current also gave me a vague feeling that if I happened to turn around the wrong way in my sleep, I’d wake up on fire.
 
My first mattress warmer experience was a few decades ago.
 
I was spending an unusually cold night at a friend’s house in Hollywood, and slept in the guest bedroom with a twin
bed. When I got in, I immediately noticed how cozy and warm the bed felt. My friend explained that the mattress pad
was the warming kind, and that she had found it in a J.C. Penney catalogue. Also, she was from Canada, so knew
about such things.
 
I wanted my very own pad warmer after that, but considered it a luxury item because even the smallest one cost nearly $200. There was also the fact that I was a single mom then, and needed the money for other things like food and rent and diapers.   
 
Then, last year, we moved to Oregon.
 
This is a place, as my Ohio-born Hubster likes to say, with “real seasons.” What he means is this: winter brings snow; fall boasts gusty winds, and for at least three months of the year, freezing temperatures at night are the norm.
 
So, it was now an easy-peasy decision to invest in a mattress warmer because it had become a necessity. Another plus is that the price tag was considerably lower than when I’d last checked, with our purchase costing only a bit over $100.
 
As it turns out, getting a bed warm before climbing into one is a tricky issue that’s been around for a long time.  
 
In the Medieval era, a servant or woman of the house heated a stone or brick by the fire, then took it to bed. By the 1500s, a brass or copper warming pan shaped not unlike a large banjo hung by the hearth. At bedtime, hot embers from a woodstove were placed inside this contraption, and grabbing its long handle, were carried to sleeping quarters. There, sometimes in a zig-zag pattern, the person doing the warming started at the head of each bed, quickly rubbing the warmer in-between sheets.
 
When he was a small boy, my spouse remembers something similar.
 
He recalls visiting a very old great-great aunt and uncle who lived in upstate New York. The bed he slept in was made of feathers, and got warmed with a cast-iron version of the afore-mentioned shape. The sheets, he says, were perfectly heated when he climbed into them a moment later. 
 
Knowing how clumsy I can be, I’m grateful to live in a time where electric mattress pad warmers are available online. 
 
But if I was forced to, even knowing I might burn a few fingers along the way, I’d try to use an old banjo one.   
 
Because honestly, there’s nothing quite as wonderful as a warmed bed on a cold Oregon night.  

COVID-19 has made my beauty routine a DIY adventure.  
 
Of course, this all began in March, when Life As It Used To Be turned topsy-turvy.   
 
Prior to that time— though only months ago, it feels like years—my vanity essentials had been covered for decades by professionals.  Really, I couldn’t imagine not going to a salon because their magic has always made me look and feel far greater than anything I might have attempted on my own.  
 
Getting my hair right is the most important. 
 
So, my tresses were colored once a month, courtesy of the only stylist in Southern Oregon who carried the identical organic line as my California hairdresser.  They also tinted and trimmed my brows and put fun colors on my bangs, including violet, blue and green, which made me look like the Girl Clown I’ll always be.  And, both waxed my upper lip, which needed attention every three weeks.  
 
Larger waxing needs—arms and legs—used to happen every six weeks at a Vietnamese owned salon, where efficiency was key. Here in Oregon, I found a thorough and speedy hairdresser who did the same.  After a sloppy bang trim from the organic stylist, this new waxer started cutting my hair, too    
 
Mani-peds were less frequent, every two months or until the gel polish on my toes had dulled and shrunk so much (thanks to new nail growth) that I couldn’t stand it anymore.   
 
So, even though I needed three separate folks to look my best, it worked. 
 
Then everything closed.
 
An ancient adage instantly came to mind: necessity is the mother of invention. 

But now, it wasn’t merely a sentence.  Now, it was a proverb that had to be put into action.
 
First up was asking the Hubster to color my hair. 
 
To say he was hesitant is an understatement, but I did my best to cheer him on.  After pinning up my locks in several places, then draping towels on the dining room floor and my shoulders and lap, we both read the package directions several times.  Finally, carefully putting on the thin disposable gloves that were inside the box, he began.  
 
My brave spouse has done the same thing three times now, and more than a few friends say that they prefer
the drugstore color over the salon look.  Also, he has trimmed my hair (which, thankfully, has no layers) and that
looks good, too.
 
Waxing was next, and it has been the most challenging. 
 
The big beauty supply store in town was also closed, so I ordered a starter’s waxing kit online.  I’d watched countless women over the years apply the sticky stuff and deftly strip it away, so I figured it couldn’t be difficult.
 
As it turns out, those folks only made it look easy. 
 
For whatever reason, my expertise at lip waxing isn’t bad.  But trying to do the same on my arms and legs hasn’t worked. I’ve made nasty adhesions by pulling the wrong way, or maybe using too much (or not enough) wax.  Worse, the wax gets everywhere.  Last week, a glob of it wound up in the washing machine.   
 
When I moaned about this online, a friend suggested Nair, the cream depilatory that made its debut in 1940.  I’d used this product in college and recalled the awful medicinal smell; also, it made my skin red and itchy.  But there are many updated versions out today, which depending on choice, boast nourishing additives with shea butter, Vitamin E and
baby oil. 
 
I chose the latter and it worked.  But I also know that the process was a success because after decades of waxing, the hair on my arms is thinner, and I have less of it, than when I was younger.  
 
The same goes for my legs, but I couldn’t get to the places I wanted to with depilatory.  That’s when the Hubster came to my rescue one more time.  He’s a member of Harry’s Club, which sounds like a strip joint but is a company devoted to superior shaving products.  Using a special pivoting Harry’s razor, along with the recommended aqua-colored shaving cream, my legs are now smooth.
 
Finally, I needed to figure out my nails.
 
My professional in this area texted me with instructions about how to remove the gel.  I gave it my all, taping large cotton balls on every toe, each soaked with industrial strength nail polish remover, for 10 minutes.  But the color remained.
 
Perhaps sensing my despair after reporting this failed effort, the expert arrived at my back yard.  There, both of us donning masks, I sat on a picnic chair while she squatted in front of me and vanquished the polish.  She has offered to return for a complete pedicure, but right now, I’m staying au natural.      
 
Here are three things I’ve learned by going DIY.
 
One, I’ve saved a ton of money, meaning, close to $800.  Two, perhaps the Hubster will consider a new calling in the world of hair color.   Lastly, while none of these routines has yielded professional results, they don’t look half bad.
 
Now, the question is this.
 
Once the pandemic has passed, will I ever return to a salon?
 
You bet.  

​I’ve become a Gel Girl.
 
For those not familiar with the vernacular of beauty salons, gel is a kind of nail polish that, for all intents and purposes, is a modern-day miracle. 
 
Its positives are many, including the fact that there’s no chipping, cracking or peeling.  And, also unlike traditional polish, gel holds its shine and won’t fade; lasts weeks longer, and is odorless.  Some professional manicurists also swear that clients who get regular gel manicures have stronger nails within a few months.  Gel also comes in plenty of colors, and thanks to a special LED light, dries within seconds of being put on, which eliminates smudging. 
 
For every one of these reasons—especially the fact that I’ll now only need a new pedicure when I notice my toenails growing out—I’m never going back to the Cutex our grandmothers used. 
 
But gel wasn’t an overnight sensation.  Indeed, nail polish has a long, and global, history.
 
The product originated in China as early as 3000 B.C., and contained beeswax, egg whites, gelatin and vegetable dyes. 
In Egypt, the richest of women wore nail extensions made from bone, ivory and gold.  In Greece in the 1800s, women of the same class choose empty pistachio shells to wear over their real nails.  Automobile paint inspired the first modern-day polish, which was colorless, but in the 1930s, premiered in a second, cream color.  A decade later, pin-up goddess
Rita Hayworth made bright red nails famous.       
 
Then came artificial nails.  Shiny and durable, they were gel’s predecessor.    
 
Like many other out-of-the-box ideas, it happened because of an accident.  In 1954, a dentist named Fred Slack broke a nail at work, and created a fake nail using dental acrylic as a replacement.  And while today’s acrylics are way more advanced than Slack’s primitive substitute (although the process is still meant for damaged nails, or ones that can’t grow), I always cringed when I saw someone getting an acrylic manicure. The chemical smell was overpowering; the sound of a drill-like instrument kept me more than an arm’s distance away, and I’m pretty sure smoke was involved.   
 
So, I kept buying drugstore polish, knowing that in a few weeks, my toes were sure to chip.  That, of course, meant it was time for the nasty smelling nail polish remover and a fresh coat of polish to the damaged areas.  Even when gel polish hit my little beach town about 10 years ago, I assumed it was uber expensive.  Consequently, I kept doing what I’d been doing.   It wasn’t great, but it was okay. 
 
Then, late last year, my daughter gifted me with a gel pedicure.

There were a few steps more at this appointment, including a different top coat and the already-mentioned light.  But as it turns out, a gel is just $10 more than a regular pedicure. 

However, there’s one big downside to traveling the gel road: over-the-counter polish remover won’t take it off.

Instead, I’ll need to go back to the salon.  I could try the removal process at home, but that involves more steps and time than the original application, including buffing the shine off each toe; placing a cotton ball soaked in acetone on every digit, and then wrapping it all in aluminum foil.  This is pretty much what salons do anyway, but at least in the hands of professionals, I know it will be done right.

I’ll keep nail polish remover around, though.

It removes paint splatters from windows and floors, as well as eliminating tea stains from China cups.  One of the weirdest uses is this:  if you happen to see a blood-sucking leech on your skin, pour the acetone directly onto the leech, and it will soon peel off.

Here’s hoping that if I’m ever in that pickle, I’ll have the remover at hand. 

​But I’ll never need it for my toes again.  

​I don’t have gray hair.
 
Put another way, I color my hair.  I feel younger and more confident doing so, and really, does anyone need to know that my once dark locks are now nearly all white?  
 
This color game isn’t new.  It first took root—pun intended—in my 30s, when I saw that my hair was turning the same yellowish, dirty white as my mother’s.  Just like me, she dyed her hair.  But unlike me, mom bought her color at the grocery store, and made her hair brunette at the kitchen table.  
 
I can still see one of her friends doing the deed—unwrapping flimsy plastic gloves that came with the dye package; assembling the concoction in a big yellow Pyrex bowl, and slathering the dark paste on my mom’s scalp.  Half an hour later, the stuff was rinsed out to reveal neither shine nor highlights, but a dull and even brown.  That was good enough.
 
I’m in a different circus tent.  
 
When I was on the road clowning, before there were any gray strands, my hair was curly and frosted, leaving tiny swirls of platinum blonde.  It gave me the funny appearance I wanted; it also meant that I didn’t need a wig.  Then, after
the discovery of my mom’s color peeking through my own head, I attempted a DIY henna look. That didn’t go well:
a boyfriend said it looked as if I poured red paint on my scalp.
 
Since then, I’ve gone to professionals.  My current colorist—who has trimmed and straightened my hair, too—is also a friend, which means I trust her. 
 
At an appointment a couple of years ago, I noticed that she’d given herself blue bang tips.  My first thought was that
this might be A Very Good Look for a clown, so, I decided to go for it.  Since then, I’ve had bright green bangs
(now cringe worthy because they’re front and center on my current passport photograph) and turquoise (which
​faded after a few weeks).  
 
Right now, I have three colors—the dark brown tint, which covers most of my hair, and on the bangs and a bit on each side of my face, magenta and violet. It’s another fun look, so I’m decided to keep it for a while. 
 
This, in spite of the fact that for the last couple of years, going gray has become the in thing to do. 
 
These women include my hairdresser, who ditched the blue, finding that she preferred a more unaffected look because it required less maintenance.  But she’s also more than 10 years younger than me, so it’s really a salt and pepper color.  The mayor of an adjacent town has also gone au natural, commenting on Facebook that “Every strand of silver is somehow one tiny step closer to becoming more me.”  Too, there are celebrities who have purposely made their hair gray, including Kelly Osbourne, Lady Gaga and Hilary Duff.
 
I’m not there yet.
 
Instead, I’m thankful that I can turn my hair any color, or combinations of color, that I want.  Heck, I may even go rainbow.  It might also mean that someday, I’ll opt for that festive yellow-white hue. 
 
But I doubt it.  

I’d been looking for the perfect one for a while.
 
I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t find it in a thrift store, not even an upscale one.  I recognized, too, that it
wasn’t going to be cheap. 
 
But when I found it, I also knew it would be worth every penny.
 
Yesterday, after confirming a few weeks ago that it was at last being put together, then tracking its packaging and likely delivery date, it arrived at my front door. 
 
And today, this Girl Clown couldn’t be happier.   
 
I’m talking about my new weighted blanket.
 
Used most often these days as a calming tool for children who are autistic; have documented Attention Deficit Disorder, or suffer from a variety of sensory issues, these blankets are now being marketed to adults for an entirely different reason: to help them get a good night’s sleep. 
 
So, given my bouts with insomnia, along with always wanting to try a natural approach first, I knew this kind of sleep aid was going to be in my very near future.  (This GCD blog from last year tells more about my tossing and turning, at http://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/let-me-sleep.)
 
Although there haven’t been a lot of studies into the science of it all, some experts say that the blankets work because they increase the serotonin in our bodies, the chemical which helps regulate mood and encourage relaxation.  Consequently, serotonin is necessary to create melatonin, another chemical that tells us when it’s time to sleep.  In addition, the weight of these blankets—optimally, about 15 pounds for an adult—reduces tossing and turning at night, which makes for a more restful slumber.  
 
I’ve already experienced the calming effects of other weighted objects. 
 
Sometimes in my yoga classes, we place small fabric weights on our chests to help us achieve the best Shavasana, that final pose which releases tension and promotes deep relaxation.  I’ve noticed that I can go more profoundly into the pose when this tool is added.  I also know that I’ve long enjoyed sleeping with heavy blankets on top of me, even during the summer.  (My late partner used to say I looked like a burrito once I bedded down.)
 
Moreover, having the glorious opportunity to work with special needs children in a classroom environment, I’ve seen firsthand how weighted fabric collars, vests and lap blankets can result in easier transitions and less meltdowns. I’ve even been able to “try them on” for myself, but sadly, many seem to be made out of synthetic, cheap fabrics which didn’t feel good on my skin.  Also, the weights themselves felt, well, too weighty. 
 
But luckily, there are more than a few niche companies offering what I was hoping to find.
 
There’s Sensacalm, which also sells special bath salts and fidget tools along with blankets, and The Magic Blanket, founded by a California dad who started the company because he liked the way a Beanie Baby hugged his shoulder after his daughter put it there while he was driving.  There’s also Mosaic, with lots of blanket sizes, including tiny lap versions, for both kids and grown-ups.
 
But I knew I’d hit pay dirt when I came upon Weighting Comforts, launched two years ago and based in
Franklin, Tennessee. 
 
Making blankets for adults only, the company was founded by former family therapist Donna Durham, who began noticing how much better her clients slept when they used weighted blankets.  But Durham also has a background in home economics education, and the beautiful fabric choices, and quality of construction, reflect that.  I also love the fact that Durham’s product is sewn by international refugees who have resettled in Tennessee. (This has been made possible
by partnering with the non-profit Sew for Hope, which provides sewing machines and classes to this vulnerable
and worthy population.)
 
Of course, none of these facts mean anything if the blanket itself isn’t fabulous.
 
I carefully opened the box that mine came in, noting the matching tissue paper and easy-to-follow instructions. (Yes, it’s machine washable.  Also, the evenly, perfectly distributed weight comes from tiny white plastic pellets that are non-hazardous and FDA approved. )  I was also immediately impressed by the quality and feel of the material, and very happy that the product itself is a decent size—almost as large as a sheet for a single bed. 
 
Given that I’m getting over a stubborn cold right now, I was pretty sure that my new bedtime accessory wasn’t going to guarantee a perfect sleep. 
 
But at some point, I blacked out for a good three hours, feeling like a sweet and loving hug had completely
enveloped me. 
 
Of course, the blanket is an inanimate object. 
 
But as Humphrey Bogart said to Claude Rains in the final scene of the classic film Casablanca, “I think this is
the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
 
What helps you stay calm and reduce anxiety, either during the day or at night?  I look forward to your stories
​and comments!  

We all know about dog people and cat people.  
 
However, I also think there are shower people and bath people.
 
I’m an unabashed Bathtub Girl.   
 
Don’t get me wrong: I love a good shower. 
 
In fact, along with that single large mug of coffee every morning, I require strong water pressure directly above my scalp to help me wake up.  And, there’s certainly something nice about going out the door with shiny scrubbed skin and just shampooed hair. 
 
But spending time in a bathtub is a completely different event, one that goes way beyond getting clean, or even calming achy muscles.
 
At least for me, drawing a bath has become a kind of after dark meditation.
 
First, I make sure the tub is clean.  Then I run the water, being careful to bring it up to the right heat.  Both too cold and too hot are unbearable, so, to steal a line from Goldilocks, the temperature must be just right. 
 
And since I always sink in the tub at night, I add a little something to help me sleep—usually with lavender as the main ingredient.  Lately, I’ve been putting in a few squirts of Johnson’s Baby Soothing Vapor Bath, which is designed to calm fussy babies. Yes, the ingredient list reads like the inside of a chemistry lab, but the main point is that, at least for now, it’s doing the job.
 
As it turns out, taking baths to bring on a night of restful zzz’s is only one benefit of a good soak.
 
It’s not surprising that regular visits to the bathtub clean and moisturize skin, hair and eyes.  But getting into a tub can also lower blood pressure and improve cardiac function, and according to the National Health Institute, expand lung capacity and oxygen intake.  In addition—and this is something I know for sure—baths reduce stress and anxiety levels.   The happy consequence to this is mood elevation.
 
Here’s one last happy fact that may surprise you: daily baths keep our bodies as well hydrated as drinking a ton of water every day (since we’re mostly made of water, this makes perfect sense).
 
For those wondering what else may be added to a bath, there appears to be a nearly infinite amount of choices.
 
Supermarkets, drug stores and natural food venues all sell bath salts, bubble mixtures and scrubs, as do many larger farmers’ markets.   If you’re into more exotic fare, try a Google search; here, with more than one million results popping up, there’s a pineapple infused oil; a crème brulee concoction, and a bubble bath bomb emblazoned with one’s favorite sports teams. For those who can’t make up their mind, there are bath of the month clubs, including Lavish Bath Box (www.lavishbathbox.com), Bath Time Box (www.bathtimebox) and Bathmatical (www.bathmatical.com). 
 
Sadly, I didn’t discover the many benefits of bathing until I was well into adulthood.   
 
While my mother put my older brother and me in the tub together as very small children, it was simply a quick and efficient way to get us both clean; soaking was never involved.  As a teenager, I loved taking showers in my parents’ newly added on master bathroom; it didn’t have a tub. There were no large ceramic ovals in my college dorm, and when I lived in Brooklyn, my apartment only had a shower.  (In fact, like so many old jerry-rigged places, the bathroom itself was literally outside my front door and down the hall.) 
 
But once returning to California, I discovered my own little slice of bathtub heaven.  And best of all, I never have to leave home to partake of this always wonderful experience.  
 
One more thing.
 
In a world that seems to be rapidly spinning off its axis, this is one ritual I’m planning to keep around for a very long time.
 
How about you?  Are you a shower or bath person?  I look forward to your stories and comments!
 
P.S.  Bonus question:  Why don’t men like baths? 

It’s a simple five-letter word that everyone does.   
 
As a matter of fact, everyone has to do it.   
 
Some, mostly the very young, are far better at it than others.  Those others, which are in the camp where I now
belong, have discovered that it becomes more elusive with each passing birthday. 
 
Yup, evening after maddening evening, getting a good night’s sleep continues to be a game of chance. 
 
I’m hardly alone.  
 
Indeed, a 2013 Gallup poll concluded that Americans typically get only about 6.8 hours of sleep every night, down more than an hour from 1942.  That’s an important number because scientists who study nocturnal patterns say we need seven to nine hours every night; growing teens need more.  (I’m actually my best self with a full 10 hours.) 
 
This is A Very Big Deal, since sleep deprivation can cause major cognitive impairment (just ask the parents of a newborn), and other significant health issues including diabetes, stroke and heart disease.  Perhaps closer to home for more of us, a CNN story earlier this month made a direct link between increased junk food cravings and the lack of sleep (check out the full report here, at www.cnn.com/2016/03/01/health/sleep-deprivation-linked-to-unhealthy-eating/). 
 
I really do try my best.
 
This means that while I won’t take sleeping pills, I do allow myself one Benadryl tablet, once per week, always on the nights that I know there’s no waiting alarm clock the next morning.  The advantage is that I sleep well; the not-so-good part is that I wake up groggy, and stay that way for several hours.   
 
So for every other evening, I’ve dipped my toes in just about every holistic sleep remedy that comes along.
 
First, that means warm baths most evenings, often boosted with organic Epsom salts, baking soda and lavender.  This routine, in fact, is no longer a luxury but a necessity.   
 
The same is true for drinking a cup of tea, either brewed from a grocery store bag, or chosen from loose teas that I make sure are always around.  Every single one is supposed to lead to the land of magical slumber, and, trust me, I’ve probably sipped nearly every variety.  We’re talking lemon balm, mint, chamomile, ginger, lemon ginger, lavender, poppy, herbal sugar cookie and too many more to remember. 
 
Or sometimes it’s warm milk; warm milk with sugar, or warm milk with crushed almonds.
 
There are the physical props, too.  
 
Granted, it probably sounds nuts to those who have no problem getting their ZZZs, but I’ve found that the right apparel—specifically, thick fluffy socks—helps me bed down.  Too, I do better with the correct blankets, which distribute the perfect amount of weight on top of me.  A down comforter, folded over double, seems to do the trick. A colder room helps as well.  And, a certain weight of flannel sheet in the wintertime also provides a great assist.   
 
Sometimes this all works, but sometimes it doesn’t.
 
Frankly, I also know that any added stress and anxiety to my already busy life—can you say stubborn, college, and a moody teenage daughter?—make mincemeat out of all of these good efforts. 
 
At the same time, I’m hyper aware that even without those extra worries keeping me awake, I can do better when it comes to my routine.  
 
After all, I’m a news junkie, and when I see something I want to share, I can’t help but post articles and photos and random musings on social media.  Also, given that I no longer have cable television, but do have access to programming on my laptop, sometimes I’ll just have to watch a show (or binge watch a series of shows) that has caught my fancy.
 
And, unless you’ve lived in a cave the last few years, most folks know that electronic devices in any form are not conductive to slumber.  
 
In fact, a recent study funded by the National Institute of Health has backed up this theory, which has been kicking around for about five years.  These latest findings had participants reading an iPad for four hours each night before hitting the hay, for five nights in the row.  Others read printed books in dim light.  After one week, the groups switched.
 
Here’s the conclusion.
 
Those who used iPads displayed reduced levels of melatonin, the hormone that, in its natural state, helps induce sleepiness in the evening.  Consequently, these participants not only took longer to fall asleep, they spent less time in rapid-eye movement (REM), the most restorative, and most necessary, element for a great night’s sleep. (More details are here, at www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/12/23/reading-before-bed_n_6372828.html.)  
 
This wasn’t surprising to me, because I know that my best horizontal times come when I switch off all  electronics—phone included—at least two hours before bedtime, and instead, cozy up on the couch with a book. 
 
Well, it’s that time, and I’ve promised myself that this is exactly what I’ll be doing tonight.   
 
I’m padding off to my kitchen now to make a cup of tea, which I will slowly drink with my lavender bath.  Then I’ll settle down with a book.
 
Let’s hope that tonight will be one that brings peaceful slumber—filled with sweet and blissful dreams.    
 
What about you? How do you get a good night's sleep? 

I’m open to every idea out there, so comments are most welcomed!  

I’m not vain. 
 
At least, I don’t think so.
 
After all, it takes me more than a year to use up a small container of foundation, and there are perfectly good eye shadows, each and every one a few decades old, stashed in a bathroom drawer.  I’m not big on perfumes or jewelry either, although baby powder and my engagement and wedding rings are always on my person.
 
And when it comes to apparel, forget high fashion, because oversized sweats and fluffy socks are this girl clown’s wardrobe of choice.  Indeed, if I could, I’d be like Hugh Hefner in this one way:  I’d wear pajamas all day,
every day.   
​ 
And yet.
 
Like my mother, I started going grey in my mid-30s, and unlike my mother, I decided to do something about that right away.  As thrifty as I am, at-home products never did the trick (there will be no mention of my brief and disastrous flirtation with henna), so I faithfully began seeing a hairdresser to return my tresses to their original color.
 
These visits were once every six weeks, but the last few years have seen me in a stylist’s chair, like clockwork, every month.  I also go for straightening as needed (organic products have made this much less damaging than even a decade ago), mainly because I hate my naturally curly hair.  (I know, I know.  We always want what we don’t have.  But in this case, I can have it.)  
 
The dreaded W word—waxing—is also in my world. 
 
In fact, in spite of the pain, I actually look forward to going from hirsute to smooth in a few hours. 
 
It started with an upper lip swipe, and soon escalated to using the hot syrupy stuff to shape my eyebrows.  Then, after decades of shaving—with that added reward of little cuts from the dainty pink razor—I decided to get my legs waxed.  After that, it was easy to move on to the dark hair on my arms, which I had previously bleached.  For those missed spots, tweezers remain my handy dandy friend. 
    
Manicures and pedicures are in the mix, too.     
 
When I was a little girl, the only folks who indulged in this luxe pampering were movie stars and those with a lot of discretionary income. But after Vietnamese owned and operated salons began popping up in the mid-‘80s, there was no going back. In fact, during the years I worked in the entertainment business in Beverly Hills and Hollywood, getting a $20 mani-pedi wasn’t an indulgence, but a regular every-other-week outing. Today, I go every six weeks or so, paying a cost-efficient $35.    
 
I shudder to think about what would I look like, and what would happen to me, if I didn’t stick to these routines. 
 
Let’s just say it isn’t pretty.
 
Within eight weeks, maximum, you’d see a cranky woman with frizzy grey hair, boasting a furry unibrow, visible mustache and not-so-polished chin.  My nails and toes would certainly be ragged, as well as visibly chipped with nasty old polish.  Previously hairless arms would fast be making up for lost time, as would my legs. 
 
In other words, I’d look exactly like a bag lady, minus the bags.
 
But it’s only outward appearance, right?
 
Wrong.
 
According to a 2008 University of Pennsylvania article in Penn Current, one of that college’s publications, there’s strong evidence that those who take care of how they look also feel better about themselves. 
 
In other words, looking one’s best is a huge confidence booster. 
 
Consequently, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t just me, I believe that this ego shot can translate into wanting to be the best we can be in every aspect of our lives.  Other studies back this up, concluding that looking good can also make you more persuasive; raise your salary up to 10 percent, and even amplify how others see your accomplishments. 
 
For me, those conclusions also indicate that you’ll also want to perform to peak capacity at a job, or aim for higher grades in school, or try to engage in a healthier lifestyle.   Case in point:  I won’t go on a job interview, or even meet a new friend, unless I’m looking my best, because I know I’ll also be feeling my best.
 
Since being polished gives me this brighter perspective, I don’t look down on those who choose plastic surgery either.     
 
If someone is going to feel better about himself/herself once their eyelids are lifted, or after a crooked nose is straightened, who am I to judge?  After all, isn’t coloring my hair, waxing regularly and keeping my toenails just so only a less intrusive version of this?  
 
Given everything that most of us do to look good, does this mean that our society is wildly superficial, and ignores what we’re like on the inside?
 
The answer, at least from this arena, is a big fat no. 
 
That’s because feeling happier and more confident when you look good is only one positive consequence of a regular beauty routine.  
 
The other, and it’s an important one, is this: taking care of ourselves makes for a significant domino effect that boosts the economy—to the tune of a whopping $426 billion per year. 
 
Yup, Huffington Post says that’s the total that women in the United States spend on beauty products in a 12-month period.  In addition, InStyle  magazine reports that in 2013, women used about $15,000 on beauty products in their lifetime (this actually seems low).  Adding to that figure, the online publication Jezebel  says that the average woman’s health and personal hygiene budget rings up to about $2,000 every year.   
 
The consequence of putting that kind of major cha-ching out into the world is definitely not a bad thing, especially if those products and services come from local, family-owned businesses. 
 
Case in point:  my hairdresser, who is a one-woman enterprise, sees about 150 clients per month.  I happen to know that nearly all of her clients’ payments  go right back into our little town—whether it’s food for her family; gas for her car, or fees for her son’s community college education.  I also buy organic Epson salts and lavender (essential for my nightly baths) from a unique herbal/spice store down the street, and part of what I give its hands-on creator goes toward hiring kids who live here, who also spend their paychecks here.     
 
And while my nail/waxing place is a 20-minute drive, here, too, it’s a small operation.  The long hours put in by the Asian couple who run it use a decent chunk of money they earn to send their two small children to an adjacent private grammar school.  Those fees help pay teachers’ salaries, and also give financial aid to those who can’t afford full tuition. 
 
My final point? 
 
I’ve decided that it’s more than okay to be vain. 
 
Even if I’m really not.   
 
What’s your beauty routine, and what benefits do you get from it?  I’d love to hear from you!
  

Here’s what I know about clichés.

They can be silly, overused and sometimes even nonsensical.  But nearly all of these one-sentence thoughts contain at least a grain of truth—which is probably why so many of them remain part of our everyday language.  

I also think that a lot of us identify with at least one of these old timey sayings. 

Mine is this:  Every cloud has a silver lining.

(For those not skilled in metaphors, the phrase means that even when life’s circumstances appear overwhelming and hopeless, something positive, sooner or later, will eventually emerge from the experience.)

But to arrive at my happy ending to the sentence, it’s important, first, to write about the cloud that hit me, literally, 13 years ago this month.

My daughter was four years old, and I was a widow who had relocated us five months earlier from Los Angeles.  Driving home, I decided to pull into a favorite produce stand right off the two-lane blacktop that connected my new address to the bigger city a few miles away.  My little girl was nodding off behind me, safe and snug in a plush car seat.

I stopped, waiting to make a left turn. 

That’s when another car—zooming at 65 miles per hour behind mine—slammed into me.    

Most folks in bad car accidents remember that the seconds during and after impact slow down, and I was no exception.
 
Taking it all in herky-jerky, stop action movements, I remember seeing the vehicle that had just badly rear ended my car fly over me, then spin and come to rest upside down. 

By this time, I was calling my child’s name and kept calling until she answered.  But it was only after I unhooked my seat belt to get to her that I noticed that neither my hands nor arms would move. 

Both were clutching the steering wheel, but scarily, I also couldn’t feel them.  It was around then that a young girl (later, l learned she was a new, 16-year-old driver) emerged from the wrecked car in front of mine.  She had cut a finger.  That was it.  Her only words to me were these: “I didn’t see you until I hit you.”  Within minutes, more cars had stopped, and other bystanders magically appeared from both sides of the road to also help.

I thought I was fine, but upon the urging of medical personnel, I allowed myself to be taken to a hospital.  Because my child was beside me, I pretended that I wasn’t all that scared, and that everything would very soon be all right.

Indeed, after looking me over, I was released that night.
 
Yup, I was pretty shaken up and I was pretty sore.  The car was totaled, too.  But my daughter was fine.  All in all, I thought we had dodged a pretty big bullet.

Then, not very long after, the pain began.

Excruciating and unyielding, it traveled from my neck to my back and shoulders, and next made its way up again.  Prescription pills took the edge off, but they never entirely kept the immense aching at bay.  My hands and fingers were now also weak, and would drop things without warning.  And although it sounds funny, one elbow began to hurt—a lot.  This was when I discovered that elbows are used constantly, from opening doors and washing dishes, to working on computers and preparing meals.

I wasn’t about to submit to surgery (which offered no guarantees anyway), and while massages and acupuncture helped, those treatments clearly weren’t enough.  So it was that after an MRI revealed a nasty case of whiplash, my physician suggested physical therapy.

I had a different idea. 

Yoga.

I wasn’t a complete stranger to this ancient practice that, while not a religion, teaches one to experience inner peace via a series of imaginative, stationary poses.  Simple meditation and breathing techniques are also part of being “on the mat.”
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Indeed, I’d taken a class here and there in Southern California, but found myself dreadfully out of place because the focus was on maintaining a skinny body, as well as encouraging competition with other classmates.  The element of breathing, which I later learned is so much of what yoga is about, was barely mentioned. 
   
But necessity is the mother of invention (another cliché!), and besides, I had now done some research on this healing technique, which some believe began about 10,000 years ago.   
 
These days, it turns out that there’s a whole lot of science behind yoga and pain management.

One study, detailed in a Harvard Medical School publication, concludes that when it comes to back pain, yoga can be successfully substituted, often with better results, for traditional Western stretching and therapy.  The fact that yoga is a relatively low cost option (often under $10 per class) , and is also offered in so many places—aside from yoga centers, it’s everywhere from churches and mobile home parks, to park and recreation centers and even on the beach—makes the practice appealing as well.    

Another Harvard article says that yoga alleviates stress and anxiety, two emotions I was feeling a lot more acutely after the accident.  Specifically, yoga can reduce heart rate, lower blood pressure and ease respiration.  There’s also evidence that a consistent yoga practice can help increase heart rate variability, an indicator of the body’s ability to respond to stress in a healthier way. 
    
This all sounded pretty darn good to me.

So, armed with a new knowledge and a new attitude, I reentered yoga with a gentle class twice a week. 

But unlike the perfect bodies of Los Angeles, I was now with a group of women, some older than me, who joked about being “the walking wounded.”  A few had been in accidents like me; some had fibromyalgia, and others were simply feeling the aches and pains of age. 

Every class began in folding chairs, and always, there were props.  Blankets, straps, and hard rubber blocks helped make the asanas—the physical movements, or poses, in yoga—that much easier. 

I especially liked what our teacher said when I first began.   “Yoga is not supposed to hurt,” she said.  “If you’re hurting, stop.  We’ll find another way.”

It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, the daily throbbing began to dissipate.  

Today, while my hands still occasionally let go of whatever I’m holding, and my neck is not all that strong, I’m no longer in pain.
     
Of course, some of the healing had to do with giving my body permission to mend in its own way, and too, in its own time. 
But I’m also positive that the lessening of my pain was accelerated by a consistent yoga practice. 

In fact, I know this is true because whenever I’ve missed a couple of weeks of class, my back and elbow start letting me know that they need a little attention.   
   
I practice at a studio closer to home now, and sometimes, even feel confident enough to participate in a strong beginner level class.  This venue also offers restorative yoga, a type of yoga that envelopes one in a profoundly deep state of relaxation that I’ve been unable to duplicate any other way.  Lately, I’ve also attended a monthly event that adds essential oils and light massage to that already heavenly experience.   

I don’t know if my body will ever be as strong as it was prior to the car crash.

But I’m also certain that if I had never gotten into that horrific wreck, I also never would have found my way to a healthy yoga practice… which has not only brought new friends to my world, but also introduced me to a way of moving that fuels my entire being.

And that, I know, makes this silver lining A Very Good Thing. 

How about you?  Whether it’s about clichés and yoga, or a life experience that came to mind with this post, I’d love to hear your stories!  
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ps. If you haven’t yet seen this astonishing yoga transformation video (it has more than 12 million hits), check it out here, at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qX9FSZJu448.