This winter of 2018 has been a new one for the books. I have found myself living with a retiree, my dear husband, Bruce. We have decided to become Florida residents and I'm now in the middle of a cliche!
The idea came to him when he realized that we could avoid paying New York State income tax. The hitch is that we spend 6 months plus one day in Florida. Now, this was never on my bucket list. I love the winters down here but I think myself much too young to be down in the land of old folks.
I may be in denial of my age as I am having a big birthday in 3 short months. The denial is genetic. My mom, Margo, never wanted to grow old and ended up dying at a relatively young age to avoid that. However, she loved the sun, cigarettes and her wine. All have a detrimental effect on both the body and the skin around it. She Nivea-ed and oiled and took vitamins that advertised a "youthful complexion" but, alas, nature had its way with her.
A week after coming down to Florida, I found a dermatologist. There were some bumps and lumps that weren't there before. Of course, the doctor gave me the line "I see you got a lot of sun as a kid"; one that I've heard often. She scared me to the point that the sun is no longer my friend. I cover up with lotion and make sure my face is pasty white with some zinc concoction when I open the door in the morning.
This doesn't seem like a great way to spend 4-5 months in this tropical climate. I am a golfer and love to walk in the fresh air. There has to be a happy medium so I don't end up with a face that looks like an alligators grandmother.
I can still enjoy my sports and swim in the Gulf but the sunblock must be reapplied several times a day, not just in the morning. This is a small price to pay to save my life from skin cancer. I got plenty of sun as a kid, anyway. Baby oil and iodine all over my lily white, sensitive Irish skin, making it sizzle like bacon. Ouch! Although I can't rewind the clock, I can prevent one or two wrinkles. You've done enough damage, Mr. Sun!