Death, Moisturizer and the Elephants

Maybe it is the impending fall or the fact that I was sold an aptly named facial cream “near death” to “fight the first signs of aging”  that has gotten me thinking of death.

(Technically though, I have to admit, the cream is not called “near death”, but Primordiale (by Lancôme). The small scale linguistic in me made immediate jump from English primordial (which in my opinion is still a very, very strange name for an anti-aging moisturizer) to French prés mort. Now I don’t just apply a pre-wrinkle cream on my face, am also applying the small questions of life and death.)

Am not that concerned what happens to my immortal soul, as I am pretty sure that I do not possess one and that there is no afterlife (this to me is quite a comforting thought). My thoughts are more centered on what happens to my fleshy vessel after I have broken the proverbial cold wind, licked the spoon the last time, bowed out of the competition, moved to a different diocese etc.

I have always, always known being buried in a box is out of the question for me. (Pre-bout of apres mort claustrophobia?) Cremation has therefore been the natural choice. But lately the thought of fiery furnace has also started to feel, I don’t know, oppressing or somehow too invasive. After some serious subcontracting of the subconscious on the subject I have begun to feel that the best way to return my energies to this universe when the time comes would be by a method of drop and decompose.

(I would like to make it known though that I do not have any kind of death wish, nor there is any reason for me to expect to change state any time soon – to my knowledge at least. The later, the better is my stand on the matter.)

For reasons unbeknown to me the idea of just being left somewhere under open skies and letting nature take its due course is consoling and easy for the heart. Of course corpses lying here and there in various stages of decomposition would be unpleasing to the eye not to mention a hazard to general hygiene and safety.  I think I have a solution to this discomfort.

In the Tarzan lore, the elephants, when sensing their number was up, would make their way to lush pastures to die. These elephant cemeteries were described as mysterious, perhaps sacred places even – always the vista opening grandly to a brilliant sunshine, white bones glistening in an ivory El Dorado.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if there would be similar places for us humans to haul our full-serviced carcasses to? Big farewell parties being organized outside white gates. Music, dance, chocolate, confetti! When suitably high on life and champagne, one would free oneself from clothes, pass through the gates, find a suitable mossy shade (or perhaps a sandy dune – chacun à son gôut), keel over and die. And then let nature take care of the rest.

Of course, this would require a fine attuned understanding of ones bodily functions to time the departure so that one would not have to loiter behind the gates longer than necessary. That, or six sets of teeth. (Apparently elephants have six sets of teeth and after they have worn out the last set, they seek a grassy plain with soft grass and water supply and as these places might be hard to come by, they have tended to gather in the same place, thus creating elephant burial grounds. This is something that I learned here.)

So whilst waiting for the world to take to this wonderful concept am going to continue to fight the fine lines slowly making their way to my face. Although I think I am going to replace the cream with the Grim Reaper lurking inside with something that has a more positive outlook on life.

Suggestions, anyone?

Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir! (A little treatise on the art of coquetry)

Mind you, I  do not claim to be an expert on flirting , but here´s my 2 cents on the subject. Never mind the articles about the art of  flirt that tell you that the most important thing is poise, self-assurance and a bright smile.  I beg to differ, the most important thing when engaging in a little harmless flirtation is a mirror and the fact that you actually take a look at yourself.

I took a dose of crazy (again) and traveled to Columbia in a company of 3 young men (of whom 2 were considerably younger). (Needless to say that the topics of conversation were somewhat  scarce whereas the conversation itself was lively  (or rather expressive) when encountering fine specimens of  Colombian sights. Then of course our idea of sightseeing  differed considerably, I was more architecture and landscapes, they were more big boobs and tight bottoms.) Anyway, good times were had and they proved to be a delightful company to travel with indeed.

On my way home I had scheduled a quick visit to Miami.  As I had already flown to Bogota via U.S.  I was prepared for the strange questions I was most likely going to be asked at the immigration. What I had not anticipated that this time the person asking the questions was undoubtedly the most gorgeous immigration officer (or whatever they are called) that has ever walked the earth (or at least Miami International Airport at that given moment). Even his uniform was steaming handsomeness:  his shirt was without a wrinkle, the very buttons seemed to sparkle, and  his shoes had a bright shine. (Actually when questioned about this last bit by my friend, I had to confess that I  actually did not see his shoes, but am sure they were immaculate as well.)

Maybe it was the testosterone overdose that I had been exposed to for the last 3 weeks or the glass of white I had with my lunch on the plane or the sleep deprivation but suddenly I was feeling very, very, very flirtatious indeed (uncharacteristically so).

So when Officer Hots´ questions went (in my  mind at least) from borderline flirtatious to almost intimate I took an unscheduled leave of my senses and engaged in a conversation that went something like this:

Officer Hot (With keen gaze. Officer Hots´gaze was positively smouldering, the whole time.): Are you travelling alone?

Me: Sir, indeed I am. (Deer in the headlights.)

(In order to save some time when we were past the questions of my chosen itinerary Helsinki-Amsterdam-Miami-Bogota & vv, and we had established that no there are no direct flights from Helsinki to Bogota the conversation continued followingly.)

Officer Hot: What were you doing in Colombia?

Me: Erm..visiting friends. Seeing the country.  Rumba and all that. (Shy smile, a little wink.)

Officer Hot: So you were travelling alone in Colombia as well?

Me: No, I was travelling with 3 youg men, friends. (Play with hair.)

Officer Hot: Why are they not travelling with you now then?

Me: mm…different timetables, different interests. (Airily.)

Officer Hot: I see. You´re staying at Winterhaven on South Beach?

Me: Indeed I am, sir. (With conviction.)

Officer Hot: And you´re staying in South Beach for 2 days, alone?

Me: Yes…but hopefully not for long. (Playful smile, batting of the eyelashes, thinking of saying “why, are you coming to pick me up later?”)

Officer Hot (keen, perplexed, a little smile): I am sure that you will enjoy your time in South Beach. Welcome to Miami, mam.

Me: Well thank you. (That was probably the most seductive thank you ever uttered at the airport, at least that day.)

When I left the airport there was  a swing in my gait and a smile in my eyes and corner of the mouth. I was happy, I was confident, I felt good with a capitol G. There is nothing like a little flirty exchange of words with a gorgeous man (in an uniform) to send one soaring.  Unfortunately that high only lasted until I got to my hotel and saw my reflection in the mirror. My hair was tousled lopsidedly, I had smudged mascara around one eye, pasta sauce on my t-shirt, and a krakatau of a zit just waiting to burst under my left nostril. All that was missing was a piece of parsley between my teeth and a pink eye and I would have been set for the crazy lady award.

(Luckily with a help of cosmetics, some powerful voodoo and a big mojito I was able to get pass the humiliating memories of my flirt exercise, which by then did not seem to be  smooth at all,  but rather  “not quite in touch with reality” type of behaviour.)

Enough said.  When flirting, always, always play a little peekaboo with a mirror first.