Exfoliating All the Way to the Champs Elysees

Four more days.
Can you believe it?
I can scarcely contain myself.
What I also can’t believe is that the entire lower half of my body is smeared with splotchy orange streaks that are actually getting darker as each day passes. Thank you Kiehl’s.
With spring in the air and all of my favourite skirts taken out of storage, it occurred to me that my legs are not unlike the pasty, clammy flesh of a freshly plucked chicken. So on Saturday, when I ran all of my last-minute trip errands (on foot, thank you very much) I added some very expensive self-tanner to the mainicure, pedicure, and…er…other bits of grooming that took place.
I got home, read the directions, and even consulted the internet, applying liberally here, and sparingly there, and low and behold, I look like one of those unfortunate souls with a pigment deficiency. Splotchy, Sexy, Good…
A dear friend (who is also very pale – but on her it’s lovely!) suggested hydrogen peroxide, but guess what? It doesn’t work either.
Perhaps someone has a belt sander that I could borrow?
On the up side, a very kind Facebook friend, (who barely knows me, but who must be psychic) sent me this link! Guess what I’ll be doing next Monday morning?


Is this thing on?
I’m new to this world, and feel a little out of my element. The world I speak of isn’t just this crazy world of bloggy goodness either. One or two of you (maybe three or four) will know exactly what I’m talking about, won’t you? For the rest, suffice to say that many a great story will be told here in the coming months. At least that’s the plan right now. But it’s just so big, isn’t it? The possibilities are crushing in their hugeness. I swallow back that familiar lump and keep noticing how one thing after another right now is lining up perfectly. Unfolding exactly right. The ducks filing neatly into their rows.
Stay tuned for true stories of living on air-mattresses, and in guest rooms, that will culminate with an amazing journey to the City of Lights just in time to see the tender buds of May. Such a cliche can really only be fantastic, can’t it?