On Skin, and the More and Less of it.

Today was my routine six month appointment with my dermatologist. Thanks to my remarkably thorough Northern European heritage on both sides, and a hardy dose of melanoma in my family history, neither I nor my dermatologist take these meetings lightly. I cannot leave a dermatology office without a divot of skin removed. Consequently, my body now looks like the landscape of a golf course practice tee.
It started at an age when I was too young to appreciate that the mole removed from somewhere in the vicinity of my undeveloped breasts would, as my pediatrician phrased it, “not distract from the bikini” I would one day wear. These inspections continued through college, when I would come home over school break and submit to the smattering of mole removals from foot, finger, lower back. Once I became an adult with my own insurance, I approached the task of finding the right skin remover with due diligence: the office was close to mine. I could squeeze in a visit over my lunch hour.
One should not underestimate the emotional duress of undergoing a full-body scrutiny for the first time. Where there is skin, there could be skin cancer. In short, lots of nakedness is involved, and I’m the only one playing this game. The day came when I donned my birthday suit in front of Dr. Kim. We upheld all statutes of professional decorum, enduring the breast-lifting to look beneath, and the – yes, I’ll say it – cheek-spreading, to, ahem, cover all bases.
Then I moved away for a while.
When I returned to New York, by pure coincidence, my new job was in the same neighborhood and offered the same insurance. I scheduled a follow-up. In the exam room, I sat with nothing on but a flimsy paper dress tied shut with a plastic string serving as a meager nod towards dignity. I comforted myself that at least he’d seen it all before. In walked Dr. Kim.
Only.
It wasn’t the Dr. Kim who had seen my most private nooks and crannies a year earlier. It was, by sheer dumb luck, a different Dr. Kim who just happened to succeed the other Dr. Kim.
What’re the odds, I ask?
The amusement factor got me through the new once-over (so unfair), and then that asshole got married and moved to New Jersey. Next! His successor sang the praises of cosmetic enhancements. Her successor is who I saw today.
I’ve gotten over the whole naked thing. It could be that this is my fifth doctor. It could be that I’m getting too old for modesty. These days I show up, I strip to my skivvies, and she sees more of me than I do.
My laissez-faire attitude does not extend to my age. Today, I asked her about my skin care options for my aging forehead, stressing that I was going to be 39 this year. My doctor, who is as white as I am – and I make this point because there are some ethnicities for whom aging seems magically elusive – chuckled, and said, “I’m sorry to laugh, but I’m 62.”
This woman doesn’t look a day over 45. The secret of her success?
“Sunscreen.”
I understand that the Evil Rays will age me before my time. I already am that freak who will spend a day at the beach wearing a sun hat and SPF 50 while sitting under an umbrella. But this woman either has the best sunscreen known to man, or there’s a painting getting older in an attic somewhere. Regardless, my faith in all things Shade has been renewed.
I may be dragged to 39 kicking and screaming, but I’ll get there pale as a ghost and with one less wrinkle on my face. And one more divot on my body.

Taking Off.

Ten years ago this summer, I landed on Maui for the very first time. It was late and dark and I couldn't see a thing, but the air was gentle, warm, sweet.

My dear friend, Katie, and I rented the ubiquitous tourist Sebring, and drove off into the inky night, convertible top down. I had no sense of the island or lay of the land; I didn't know we were driving across the flat of Central Maui, or that our route to Lahaina was carved into the hills of the West Maui mountains. All I knew was that the sky was saturated with bright stars, the salty ocean was nearby, and it felt heavenly. I woke early the next morning from a jet-lag heavy sleep and stepped out onto the beach. Behind me, bright, green mountains stretched toward the blue sky, a light morning drizzle lending to their sparkle. In front of me, volcanic islands rose from the sea.

Yesterday, I came across a photo of that very first morning. I’m in a yellow bikini, arms raised exuberantly at the wonder surrounding me. I remember thinking that I'd had no idea this beauty existed. And, I thought, I need to be here.

So I moved here. Twice.

The first time I moved was for ten months, a delicious break from what hurt. During those delirious, free-spirited months, I steeped myself in life on a tropical island. And I lived in three different places. My first six months were spent in a clean, simple vacation rental in the lush countryside of Haiku. My view reminded me of the picture on the back of the old Cornflakes box; vast meadows, golden sun, birds in the sky. I then moved down the coast into the small neighborhood of Kuau, makai side. I lived in a tiny pale, yellow cottage where the kitchen sink doubled as the bathroom sink, and the mildew-speckled refrigerator stood outside. A black and white coral beach was a stone's throw away. When the owner decided to move back into the space, I found yet another temporary home. My final stop was a light and breeze-filled apartment atop a garage, a short, plumeria scented, bike-ride to a mile-long sandy beach. And to get to my Volleyball 101 class, I biked along the airport’s runways.

Without realizing it, with each new home, I had moved closer and closer to the airport. Six weeks later I was back in Manhattan.

This time, I’ve lived in Maui for five years. Again I’ve had three different homes. This last one, my lovely studio in Spreklesville, happens to have again landed me right beside the airport. And soon I will be taking off for New York City, a one-way ticket in hand.

People have asked me why I'd leave the beauty of this island, the perfect weather, the warm year-round sun for the grit of the city, the unpleasant smells, the horrible summer humidity. Fair questions. I wonder about those things, as well. I am not tired of the beauty, the sun, the sea, the full moon over Haleakala, the jungles full of ginger and waterfalls. No, I am not.  I can list the reasons for my move if pushed to do so. I can appeal to my, and perhaps your, logical side. But in the end, there is just a knowing that it is time to go back… for now.

From the beach by my house, I see the planes as they take off. And from the path where I run, I can see them land. I often stop and wait for the plane to touch down. I watch it take the traditional landing route, heading away from me as it crosses the island to make a giant u-turn over the south side. It glides back towards me into the head winds, easing its way down gradually until it touches the ground, roaring its arrival.

Each time, I wonder if there is someone on the plane landing for the first time. Looking out the window. Excited. Wondering what it will be like. And each time, I whisper a welcome and I wonder if - no, hope - they will experience even a little of the magic that I have.