SPOTTED, DOTTED, POLKA-DOTTED

I like to think of our bodies as blank canvases. Ever evolving into artistic masterpieces. What a lovely way to think. Right? Such kindness and compassion toward our bodies.

C’mon, you must admit our outers and innards are indeed amazing, as in, “you are beautiful inside and out”.

On the other hand, might this “ever-evolving canvas” (revealed in drips and sprinkles and splodges of polka-dotting abundance) be having the last laugh?

Oh the hilarity. Oh the irony. Oh the suspense. I await with great anticipation.

LOL?

The following is unequivocal evidence of our unique bod stories. AKA – practical jokes?

a pox upon me

As a child, I was a highly contagious ball of itchy, blotchy, speckled pox. A regular petri dish. Chickenpox to be precise. Those red, irritating, inflamed eruptions caused much havoc. The intense itching was almost unbearable.

My parents tried to be helpful. Dr. Schultz made a house call. Calamine lotion was prescribed. Gloves were de rigueur.

But my darling mommy and daddy were determined to go even further by spreading the “joy”.

Invites went out to entice friends and family to bring their kids over to party bask in my dotted radiance. And I did what was required by swiftly contaminating their unawares offspring.

It was a POX party! Only without cake and presents. YAY!?

my spotted friend

In eighth grade I was desperate to get my period (my ‘friend’ we called it) as all of my besties had already succumbed to womanhood. The box filled with all the trappings of a beginner woman just sat there as a frustrating reminder of my lack of development in the lady department.

Apparently pain, bloat and that obtrusive wad stuck between one’s legs and held by that horrifying in-sane-itary belt was somehow appealing? 😳

In my case, in all respects, it turned out to quite appealing.

As my impatience was getting the better of me … I faked the arrival of my special “pal”. And I had the perfect plan.

Carefully extracting a tiny droplet of blood from my fingertip, I quickly pressed that dot onto a sanitary napkin.

Waving that Modess pad for all to see, I ran through my house in joyful pronouncement. I called my friends and wrote in my diary. I spoke of it so much and in such detail that I actually began to believe it.

And guess what?

After a few days of wearing the equipment (I had to keep up appearances) I was gifted the real thing. My dear “friend”, or as one of my daughters referred to as my “dot”, had finally arrived.

And at long last I would get to experience this EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH.

This friendship?

COMPLICATED.

i woke up like this

The teenage years were a minefield of pimples, blemishes, zits, and imperfections. Those outbursts of adolescent imperfections were so shrewd. Oh the anguish endured as we tampered with those spots – poking, digging and applying clearing and preventive cures.

Those ‘bursting at the seams’ inflammations were always appearing at the most inconvenient times. School dances, first dates, school pics, etc.

Pointing out those swellings we’d ask our moms to weigh in – to honestly evaluate their size and ocular acuity. Be honest moooommmmmm.

Surprise surprise … they could “barely see them” (winky face) – really? Those massive, pulsating, spot-lit growths were completely undercover??

It was an I know that you know that I know that you know kind of deal. I mean, we were in cahoots. How else could they have ever convinced us to leave the house‽

It seems very few escaped the wrath of those sebaceous glands. And as for those flawless peeps …

… a pox on the lot them.

the cherry on top

For many years, my best-friends’ visits were habitually hoped for – as in, right on schedule. Punctuality was crucial. No surprises please.

Right on the dot.

On the other hand, once my maternal clock began tick, tick, TICKING I needed to get my BFF to take a much-needed hiatus. SCRAM.

For like 9 months.

Fast forward and once my friend-ship dwindled down and became a distant memory there were no more long overdue or surprise visits. The need to stress over timing was no longer an issue.

In its place? Just some parched lady parts gasping for moisture.

You know that saying about friends who come into your life for a reason and a season or a lifetime? Well this friend shows up for a reason AND a season. Full stop.

So… my friend, dot, dear Aunt Flo… as much as I am grateful for the time we had together, I can honestly say I don’t miss our intimate relationship one bit! PERIOD.

Anyhoo, just when I thought I had escaped all the spotted dotted issues – weird things began to appear on my skin. I’m talking small red or purple bumps that seem to materialize anywhere they damn well please.

Where there was one, now there are five – all in their crimson bedazzlement – CHERRY ANGIOMAS.

Aawww… cherry …such a sweet, sweet word. A word I associate with innocence and youth and rosie-cheeks. They could have left the moniker as that. It would have been the kindlier thing to do.

But, nooooooooo. “Someone” decided it would be cute to have charming nicknames. Let’s call them SENILE angiomas or AGE SPOTS. And if that isn’t enough, they should also answer to the handle, LIVER SPOTS.

Oh come on…

connecting all the dots

I think we would feel a whole lot better about these frustrating, annoying, often embarrassing experiences if we could reframe them as admirable chapters of expressiveness in our bodies’ story.

A testament to our astonishing resilience.

Body art representative of a life lived to the fullest.

Exclamation point.

Damn right.

YES.

Our innards and outers are sure determined to keep us guessing. Maybe it’s the only way our bods can submit evidence of a playful sense of humor.

Because I can play connect-the-dots on my left arm.

~ image via Pinterest