A hit-home history of the wacked out ways we used to while away our sun-filled summer days -- and what we can do now to keep our skin as safe as can be
I grew up in NYC with a mom whose life quite literally revolved around the sun. A woman who, at the first sign of viable tanning rays, would fling open the windows of our 10th-floor apartment and splay herself on the floor for as long as the angle would position the sun to hit her face.
On summer mornings we'd be awakened bright and early to exaltations of "sun's out, beach day" and rush to get pool/ocean side by 10am to ensure maximum "prime exposure" time.
My mom, a Mary Tyler Moore look-alike, clad always in a super teeny French bikini, was "brown as a berry" from Memorial Day through Labor Day thanks to a special, homemade, proprietary blend of baby oil and iodine and dedication, lots of it. It takes work to build a tan, people.
Then, when I was 16, mom received a pre-melanoma biopsy result on a mole she'd had removed and all of a sudden our sun-worshipping ways came to a screeching halt. Gone were the bottles of baby oil, spring breaks to sunny destinations (I had to learn to ski for cripe's sake!) and days of pursuing the golden glow. The fear of cancer had cast a literal pall on our family. And, to this day, she and my dad won't spend a minute outdoors without wearing powerful protection and a hat and sunglasses.
This story, or some version of it, is what basically happened -- and continues to happen -- to the world as we became aware of the damage that the sun's harmful rays can inflict if we don't take the necessary precautions to protect ourselves.
Of course, not everyone has been "scared pale," tanning booths continue to increase in popularity despite some seriously scary warnings, folks still "lie out" and the young persist in thinking they're invincible.
But, we're making some serious strides. Here's a look back at some of the seriously wacky things we used to do during sunny days and expert tips on what we can do now to ensure we're doing the best we possibly can to protect our skin.
Shunning the Sun
Believe it or not, having tan skin used to be déclassé
-- a clear indication that you were poor. After all, farm hands and manual laborers worked outside in the sun, the "ladies who lunched" were most certainly not out in the fields perpetrating a tan. Pale skin equaled affluence.
In fact, as far back as Ancient Greece, people sought pale skin -- so much so that in 200 B.C. folks favored a white lead powder mask to give their faces the pallor they wanted -- never mind that it was it deadly.
Similarly, during the Italian Renaissance and the British Elizabethan era, women wore lead paint and then ceruse, a lethal mixture of vinegar and white lead, on their faces.
Today, pale is starting (ish) to come back into vogue. Editorial directors have tried to disseminate the Julianne Moore "white is beautiful" message but then Sofia Vergara or the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue girls come along in all their brown sun bunny glory and effectively suck the wind out of the "pale is pretty" sails.
"While you can't completely reverse the freckles and sun damage you have, you can prevent new damage from happening," says Dr. Heidi Waldorf. Wearing a good sunscreen and applying it properly and often enough is a good plan of attack and, as Waldorf suggests, "cleansing with a body wash that contains free-radical fighting antioxidants before applying your sunscreen" is a good idea.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Thursday, November 20, 2014
UGH: My Kids Missed Christmas Because I Was in Rehab
The first time I drank alcohol I got super got drunk and threw up.
Over a movie theater balcony.
Onto the heads of the unsuspecting Chevy Chase fans seated below.
That should've been a clear sign that booze and I were not a match made in heaven but, hey, I was only 14 and it would take another 30 years before I realized I had a capital p Problem. And it sure as hell wasn't with those zany Griswolds. (Although they are pretty freaking annoying.)
I grew up in New York City in the early 80s and partying is what we did. And we did it WELL. Hanging at Studio 54 doing lines with the Rolling Stones is normal 15 year-old behaviors, right? Being way more proficient at "Quarters" than you are at Algebra is something every 9th grader should aspire to, amiright?
Because "FUN" is what I wanted more than anything else, instead of going on to college like the rest of my prep school class, I went to work for Club Med. As I saw it, getting drunk and meeting new people was the whole point of going to college anyway, and, hell, Club Med would pay me to do that and let me live on lush Caribbean islands while I was it. See? My algebra may have been sorely lacking, but my logic was flawless.
The party was on. I hit the aptly named Paradise Island as an 18-year-old whose job, when she wasn't teaching tennis, was to fraternize with vacation goers --to help ensure that they had the trip of a lifetime. So, like a good little worker bee, fraternize I did. At the bar. In various bathroom stalls (this was the Bahamas in the late 80s after all, cocaine was copious, cheap and hella pure.) And elsewhere. (But that's fodder for a different confession.)
It was all fun and games for nearly 10 years. I traveled the world, drinking, drugging and having "fun" all in the name of "work." Then it all came to a screeching halt when, one day, I met a guy -- a good old straight-laced Catholic boy from Quebec City (!) and married him three months later. [Note: do NOT attempt this course of action.] Au revoir Club Med, how's it going Los Angeles? And a house, and a "real" job and, hey, why not?, let's add some kids to the mix and, just to keep things interesting, let's make 'em twins.
I stopped drinking the second I peed positive on that stick and didn't look back for nearly ten years.
Party girl me had been replaced by SUPERMOMMY me. It was easy; I didn't want to be that drunken mom. I'd shudder at the mere notion of driving my babies around while under the influence.
Nope, I now got high on life; on seeing things anew through the eyes of my little ones, on living new experiences through them, on being PTA president and room mom and baking cutesy cupcakes all that other pink cloud, new mom bullshit you read about ad nauseum in women's mags. But, things were great. Until they weren't.
Quebec and I divorced because, really, you should get to know the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with, money got tight, and basically life just sort of happened so, somehow I started to drink again. Just some wine with dinner. Just a few cocktails at parties. "Normal" drinking like everyone does. Because, of course, I had my shit together, I was SUPERMOMMY, remember? Yeah. Only not so much.
Keeping your shit together when all you really want to do is be drunk all day, every day, is a tall order. Keeping all your commitments tended to when your alcoholism is fighting to get the upper hand, is a full time job. Getting your real job done becomes a monumental pain in the ass. Then there's the rub that planning your drinking is an exhausting pastime; how many glasses of wine can I have and still be sober enough to drive home? Can we see "Despicable Me" at the theater that has a bar? Why don't liquor stores in California deliver? Dammit!
Then there were the pesky hangovers from hell. The only way I knew to quell them would be to start drinking again. So I did and that's when things got bad. Really, really bad. My kids, then 11, had never seen me "drunk". They'd seen me drink wine, they'd seen me and their friends' parents get loud and laugh-y and all that but they'd never seen me stumbling, out of control shitfaced.
That all changed last Thanksgiving when, saddled with the stress of having to host my family (I love them but, God I require copious amounts of vodka to deal), the pressure of having to get my house ship shape, and feeling that I had to out-Martha Stewart freaking Martha Stewart with the week-long food prep, I lost myself in a bottle of Kim Crawford. OR 20. OVER THE COURSE OF FOUR DAYS. When you're 5' 5" and weigh about 102 lbs. soaking wet, this is not a good thing.
With my entire family having taken up temporary residence at my house, I spent Wednesday before Turkey day "sick" in bed with an increasing stash of empty green glass bottles of sauvignon blanc hidden under my bathroom sink) and, lo and behold by the time that giant inflated Snoopy was winding his way down 34th street, I was in the E.R. with a doc telling me that I was malnourished, dehydrated and should strongly consider going to rehab. He also, thank GOD, told me NOT to stop drinking on my own, that I could have a seizure and die. I made him put that in writing so I could survive the family meal.
The next day, while I sat sipping fermented grapes in an effort to stave off both a horrific hangover and that theoretical life-endangering seizure, I watched my siblings and parents transform my living room into command central as they vetted myriad treatment centers. Ultimately, the onus of rehabbing my wayward ways and me fell on the capable shoulders of the nearby Betty Ford Center. I was willing to go, but frantic at the prospect of missing my kids' parent/teacher conferences, their holiday vacation and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. I mean, sure, getting my shit together was of paramount importance and, maybe I'd get lucky and end up with Lindsay Lohan as a roomie but at what price?
What kind of mother abandons her kids -- at freaking Christmas? One who needs help, that's what kind. As I kept telling myself again and again while undergoing the check in process (pretty pedestrian), the detox (pretty gnarly) and the soul-searching (overwhelmingly OUCH-Y), the "best gift I could give my kids for Christmas was a healthy, back-to-normal, me."
So that's what I set my sights on and committed to doing. I worked my ass off at that place; admitting that I had a disease, that I was "powerless over alcohol" but that I didn't have to drink again if I used the tools I was learning to deal with life's stresses (family gatherings, anyone?) instead of the bottle. Was my month in the desert chock-full o' sunshine and unicorn tears? Fuck no. But it was great in a different kind of way. I got my life back. I got my priorities back. I got a second chance. And guess what? Those terrific kids of mine didn't whine, or complain or guilt trip or any of the things I'd feared. They were supportive and loving because, hey, whaddaya know? I'd done an ok job raising empathetic humans. And, this year, with 387 days of sobriety (touch wood) under my belt, we can celebrate the holiday together and I'll even be able to remember it the next day. Talk about a Christmas bonus…
Over a movie theater balcony.
Onto the heads of the unsuspecting Chevy Chase fans seated below.
That should've been a clear sign that booze and I were not a match made in heaven but, hey, I was only 14 and it would take another 30 years before I realized I had a capital p Problem. And it sure as hell wasn't with those zany Griswolds. (Although they are pretty freaking annoying.)
I grew up in New York City in the early 80s and partying is what we did. And we did it WELL. Hanging at Studio 54 doing lines with the Rolling Stones is normal 15 year-old behaviors, right? Being way more proficient at "Quarters" than you are at Algebra is something every 9th grader should aspire to, amiright?
Because "FUN" is what I wanted more than anything else, instead of going on to college like the rest of my prep school class, I went to work for Club Med. As I saw it, getting drunk and meeting new people was the whole point of going to college anyway, and, hell, Club Med would pay me to do that and let me live on lush Caribbean islands while I was it. See? My algebra may have been sorely lacking, but my logic was flawless.
The party was on. I hit the aptly named Paradise Island as an 18-year-old whose job, when she wasn't teaching tennis, was to fraternize with vacation goers --to help ensure that they had the trip of a lifetime. So, like a good little worker bee, fraternize I did. At the bar. In various bathroom stalls (this was the Bahamas in the late 80s after all, cocaine was copious, cheap and hella pure.) And elsewhere. (But that's fodder for a different confession.)
It was all fun and games for nearly 10 years. I traveled the world, drinking, drugging and having "fun" all in the name of "work." Then it all came to a screeching halt when, one day, I met a guy -- a good old straight-laced Catholic boy from Quebec City (!) and married him three months later. [Note: do NOT attempt this course of action.] Au revoir Club Med, how's it going Los Angeles? And a house, and a "real" job and, hey, why not?, let's add some kids to the mix and, just to keep things interesting, let's make 'em twins.
Party girl me had been replaced by SUPERMOMMY me. It was easy; I didn't want to be that drunken mom. I'd shudder at the mere notion of driving my babies around while under the influence.
Nope, I now got high on life; on seeing things anew through the eyes of my little ones, on living new experiences through them, on being PTA president and room mom and baking cutesy cupcakes all that other pink cloud, new mom bullshit you read about ad nauseum in women's mags. But, things were great. Until they weren't.
Quebec and I divorced because, really, you should get to know the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with, money got tight, and basically life just sort of happened so, somehow I started to drink again. Just some wine with dinner. Just a few cocktails at parties. "Normal" drinking like everyone does. Because, of course, I had my shit together, I was SUPERMOMMY, remember? Yeah. Only not so much.
Keeping your shit together when all you really want to do is be drunk all day, every day, is a tall order. Keeping all your commitments tended to when your alcoholism is fighting to get the upper hand, is a full time job. Getting your real job done becomes a monumental pain in the ass. Then there's the rub that planning your drinking is an exhausting pastime; how many glasses of wine can I have and still be sober enough to drive home? Can we see "Despicable Me" at the theater that has a bar? Why don't liquor stores in California deliver? Dammit!
Then there were the pesky hangovers from hell. The only way I knew to quell them would be to start drinking again. So I did and that's when things got bad. Really, really bad. My kids, then 11, had never seen me "drunk". They'd seen me drink wine, they'd seen me and their friends' parents get loud and laugh-y and all that but they'd never seen me stumbling, out of control shitfaced.
That all changed last Thanksgiving when, saddled with the stress of having to host my family (I love them but, God I require copious amounts of vodka to deal), the pressure of having to get my house ship shape, and feeling that I had to out-Martha Stewart freaking Martha Stewart with the week-long food prep, I lost myself in a bottle of Kim Crawford. OR 20. OVER THE COURSE OF FOUR DAYS. When you're 5' 5" and weigh about 102 lbs. soaking wet, this is not a good thing.
With my entire family having taken up temporary residence at my house, I spent Wednesday before Turkey day "sick" in bed with an increasing stash of empty green glass bottles of sauvignon blanc hidden under my bathroom sink) and, lo and behold by the time that giant inflated Snoopy was winding his way down 34th street, I was in the E.R. with a doc telling me that I was malnourished, dehydrated and should strongly consider going to rehab. He also, thank GOD, told me NOT to stop drinking on my own, that I could have a seizure and die. I made him put that in writing so I could survive the family meal.
The next day, while I sat sipping fermented grapes in an effort to stave off both a horrific hangover and that theoretical life-endangering seizure, I watched my siblings and parents transform my living room into command central as they vetted myriad treatment centers. Ultimately, the onus of rehabbing my wayward ways and me fell on the capable shoulders of the nearby Betty Ford Center. I was willing to go, but frantic at the prospect of missing my kids' parent/teacher conferences, their holiday vacation and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. I mean, sure, getting my shit together was of paramount importance and, maybe I'd get lucky and end up with Lindsay Lohan as a roomie but at what price?
What kind of mother abandons her kids -- at freaking Christmas? One who needs help, that's what kind. As I kept telling myself again and again while undergoing the check in process (pretty pedestrian), the detox (pretty gnarly) and the soul-searching (overwhelmingly OUCH-Y), the "best gift I could give my kids for Christmas was a healthy, back-to-normal, me."
So that's what I set my sights on and committed to doing. I worked my ass off at that place; admitting that I had a disease, that I was "powerless over alcohol" but that I didn't have to drink again if I used the tools I was learning to deal with life's stresses (family gatherings, anyone?) instead of the bottle. Was my month in the desert chock-full o' sunshine and unicorn tears? Fuck no. But it was great in a different kind of way. I got my life back. I got my priorities back. I got a second chance. And guess what? Those terrific kids of mine didn't whine, or complain or guilt trip or any of the things I'd feared. They were supportive and loving because, hey, whaddaya know? I'd done an ok job raising empathetic humans. And, this year, with 387 days of sobriety (touch wood) under my belt, we can celebrate the holiday together and I'll even be able to remember it the next day. Talk about a Christmas bonus…
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Why Looking Middle Aged Is the New Goal (Or So They Tell Me)
Find out why many professional women are opting not to over plump or perma-freeze their aging faces
"My patients aren’t in here because they’re trying to hold on to their husbands. If they’re trying to hang on to anything, it’s their jobs." So says Dr. Macrene Alexiades-Armenakas a highly sought after Manhattan-based dermatologist in The New York Times.
What the good doctor, who holds not one, but three degrees from Harvard, is alluding to is that, after a certain age, professional women can be dismissed as too old to do the jobs they've worked so hard (and long) to get. As one client put it, "I’m on an airplane to a different continent every other week. There’s no way they’d let me keep up this pace if I looked as exhausted as I am."
But, having the technology to be able to erase the ravages of a (longish) life lived is a double-edged sword. If these high-powered dames lift every sag and iron out every wrinkle they run the risk of looking too young (and perhaps vain/Real Housewife-y). So, as The Times says, "What these women seek is not so much the fountain of youth as its corollary, eternal early middle age. And so Dr. Alexiades-Armenakas strives not to iron out too much of life’s ravages."
One high falutin' vice chairman concurs, saying that she, and others like her, are looking to be "suspended at the 45 to 55 range."
As a result, dermatologists like Alexiades-Armenakas strive to leave some of those hard-earned crows feet and laugh lines in place, the concept being that "If you leave a few wrinkles, it looks more authentic."
While it's amazing that we live in a time when it's possible to (fake) dialing back the hands of time to a precise age range, is it equally amazing (read: sad) that these women feel compelled to do it? Would Warren Buffet or Richard Branson ever have such a notion enter the super-successful minds housed inside their decidedly wrinkly heads? High doubtful. How can we have come so far but still have such a long road to trudge?
"My patients aren’t in here because they’re trying to hold on to their husbands. If they’re trying to hang on to anything, it’s their jobs." So says Dr. Macrene Alexiades-Armenakas a highly sought after Manhattan-based dermatologist in The New York Times.
What the good doctor, who holds not one, but three degrees from Harvard, is alluding to is that, after a certain age, professional women can be dismissed as too old to do the jobs they've worked so hard (and long) to get. As one client put it, "I’m on an airplane to a different continent every other week. There’s no way they’d let me keep up this pace if I looked as exhausted as I am."
But, having the technology to be able to erase the ravages of a (longish) life lived is a double-edged sword. If these high-powered dames lift every sag and iron out every wrinkle they run the risk of looking too young (and perhaps vain/Real Housewife-y). So, as The Times says, "What these women seek is not so much the fountain of youth as its corollary, eternal early middle age. And so Dr. Alexiades-Armenakas strives not to iron out too much of life’s ravages."
One high falutin' vice chairman concurs, saying that she, and others like her, are looking to be "suspended at the 45 to 55 range."
As a result, dermatologists like Alexiades-Armenakas strive to leave some of those hard-earned crows feet and laugh lines in place, the concept being that "If you leave a few wrinkles, it looks more authentic."
While it's amazing that we live in a time when it's possible to (fake) dialing back the hands of time to a precise age range, is it equally amazing (read: sad) that these women feel compelled to do it? Would Warren Buffet or Richard Branson ever have such a notion enter the super-successful minds housed inside their decidedly wrinkly heads? High doubtful. How can we have come so far but still have such a long road to trudge?
WHY I'M FOLLOWING SHARON STONE'S ADVICE ON AGING
A year or so ago, I wrote a column called My Struggle to Age Gracefully: How Keeping Things in Perspective Helps to Keep Me Sane. Well, Sorta. Yeah, yeah, not the world's most succinct headline, but it spoke to how I was feeling at the time.
In the piece, I talked about how I'd once thought my "beauty" had peaked at age 26, and how it wasn't until many years later that I'd realized how idiotic I'd been to think such a thing.
In full indulgent-writer mode, I went on to explain how, at 35, I'd had an "a-ha" moment. I realized I was never going to look any better, or any younger, than I did at the present moment. "The grains of sand were sifting through the hourglass, and I could do absolutely nothing about it. I had to embrace the here and now -- and my looks."
And, before y'all jumped all over me about being too caught up in the superficial, I back-pedaled -- a little. "To read this, it sounds like I'm an incredibly vain, shallow woman who's all-consumed with her beauty quotient. The thing is, I'm really not. I'm more concerned with the lack of youth. Growing old kinda sucks. Plain and simple. As a woman, to the outside world, you become invisible. The glances from men on the street wane to a point where, when some creep whistles at you, you want to run over and thank him. It's when I find myself thinking along these lines that I have to stop and remember that it shouldn't matter how strangers perceive me. That what's important is being a good person on the inside -- being a great mom, thoughtful friend, and as good a person as I can."
Nice sentiment, huh? Thanks.
What made me remember that column today was something I read in some blog this morning. Seems that in January of 2008, Harper's Bazaar published a story on the then 49-year-old Sharon Stone and her "beauty secrets." In the article she talks about being tapped to be the face of Dior in her 40s, eschewing facials because she doesn't "like people to push and pick at my face," the fact that she only washes her hair twice a week, and that she has a weakness for dark chocolate. And, while that's all very well and good, it's not what struck a chord with me.
What she said that really hit home was the following: "Sometimes I literally have to sit down and look at myself and say, 'You are a lot older, and you look completely different.' You can't just keep doing the same hairdo or the same makeup and the same jewelry and the same look. You have to face the face that you have."
Isn't that interesting? It's an incredibly obvious concept of course, yet somehow still murky and hard to grasp. We all poke fun at those who are stuck in a time warp -- you know, the ones who have the same big hair, bright eye makeup, and Levi's 501s as they did in 1982. Yet, guess what? When we insist on seeing who we were in the mirror rather than who we've become, that's what happens.
What I'm gleaning from this latest a-ha moment is that it's not just my attitude about aging that needs to change, but also my perception of myself. To whit, it's time to take a cold hard look in the mirror and adapt my skin care regimens, makeup application, and hairstyling accordingly.
Oh, and it'd also be a good thing to stop judging others by their telltale scrunchies -- 'cause after all, they're struggling just like I am.
In full indulgent-writer mode, I went on to explain how, at 35, I'd had an "a-ha" moment. I realized I was never going to look any better, or any younger, than I did at the present moment. "The grains of sand were sifting through the hourglass, and I could do absolutely nothing about it. I had to embrace the here and now -- and my looks."
And, before y'all jumped all over me about being too caught up in the superficial, I back-pedaled -- a little. "To read this, it sounds like I'm an incredibly vain, shallow woman who's all-consumed with her beauty quotient. The thing is, I'm really not. I'm more concerned with the lack of youth. Growing old kinda sucks. Plain and simple. As a woman, to the outside world, you become invisible. The glances from men on the street wane to a point where, when some creep whistles at you, you want to run over and thank him. It's when I find myself thinking along these lines that I have to stop and remember that it shouldn't matter how strangers perceive me. That what's important is being a good person on the inside -- being a great mom, thoughtful friend, and as good a person as I can."
Nice sentiment, huh? Thanks.
What made me remember that column today was something I read in some blog this morning. Seems that in January of 2008, Harper's Bazaar published a story on the then 49-year-old Sharon Stone and her "beauty secrets." In the article she talks about being tapped to be the face of Dior in her 40s, eschewing facials because she doesn't "like people to push and pick at my face," the fact that she only washes her hair twice a week, and that she has a weakness for dark chocolate. And, while that's all very well and good, it's not what struck a chord with me.
What she said that really hit home was the following: "Sometimes I literally have to sit down and look at myself and say, 'You are a lot older, and you look completely different.' You can't just keep doing the same hairdo or the same makeup and the same jewelry and the same look. You have to face the face that you have."
Isn't that interesting? It's an incredibly obvious concept of course, yet somehow still murky and hard to grasp. We all poke fun at those who are stuck in a time warp -- you know, the ones who have the same big hair, bright eye makeup, and Levi's 501s as they did in 1982. Yet, guess what? When we insist on seeing who we were in the mirror rather than who we've become, that's what happens.
What I'm gleaning from this latest a-ha moment is that it's not just my attitude about aging that needs to change, but also my perception of myself. To whit, it's time to take a cold hard look in the mirror and adapt my skin care regimens, makeup application, and hairstyling accordingly.
Oh, and it'd also be a good thing to stop judging others by their telltale scrunchies -- 'cause after all, they're struggling just like I am.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
MY OPEN LETTER TO PHOTOSHOP-HAPPY EDITORS
The jig is up. People are onto you and your maniacal ways. So, what do you say you step away from the Photoshop stylus so we can talk?
Attaboy.
For years, we avid consumers of media have feasted upon your offerings of the beautiful people. Countless photos of an ageless Madonna, a svelte Tyra Banks, a flawless J. Lo have seeped into our collective consciousness and done a major number on our self-esteem.
You've been chided in the past for brushing and tweaking images of genetically blessed, bronzed, Amazonian models to levels of ridiculous perfection -- but did that stop you? Ha.
You put stars' heads onto other people's bodies, whittle away at waistlines, re-position hands and legs to near contortionist proportions all the while hiding behind the claim that it's "art" and that people want to see "perfect images."
Guess what? We don't. And, we're not alone.
In fact, this problem has reached such epic proportions that in June, the American Medical Association asked advertisers to "discourage the altering of photographs in a manner that could promote unrealistic expectations of appropriate body image." Legislators in Europe and America are so annoyed that they're calling for doctored photos to be clearly identified as such. And now, according to the "New York Times," a couple of computer science geniuses at Dartmouth are, "proposing a software tool for measuring how much fashion and beauty photos have been altered, a 1-to-5 scale that distinguishes the infinitesimal from the fantastic."
Such a tool would help make inroads towards exposing altered photos for what they really are -- fantasy. And, if it was made accessible to the public, just think how much fun it would be to play around with. You could use it on photos of your favorite celebs and see just how much Photoshopping it took to get them to look so darn good.
Now I know what I want for Christmas.
Friday, March 7, 2014
You Keep the Kale, I'm Trying the New "Ice Cream Cleanse"
A California creamery claims that raw, saturated fat is a "miracle worker" for the human body -- it's also their ice cream's main ingredient
I am an ardent fan of the juice cleanse. I've tried many of the commercial ones (with Blue Print being my favorite) and always enjoy the results -- if not the first 12 hours.
The leaning out, the de-puffing, the clear(ing) complexion -- all aces in my book. And, I absolutely love the no-brainer convenience of reaching for a bottle and not having to plan a meal. Factor in that I genuinely like the way most of them taste (that nasty macadamia milk notwithstanding) and, if they weren't so gosh darn expensive I'd be happy to juice cleanse my way through life.
In fact, I've been contemplating placing order for a 5-day "Excavation Cleanse" -- spring break is just around the corner -- but this morning, something came across my Feedly feed that may have (permanently) altered that plan.
The headline alerted me to the fact that Kippy's, an organic, non-dairy ice cream shop in, where else?, Venice, Calif. is promoting the first-ever "Ice Cream Cleanse." Had it been April 1st, I probably wouldn't even have bothered to click through but, as it turns out, this is on the up and up.
The shop, which scoops Truly. Raw. Gourmet. ice creams and sorbets which are "100% Real Food" ("We use ingredients that are as close as possible to the way nature made them. We never add fillers, emulsifiers, or preservatives (like guar gum or xanthan gum) or anything that is not 100% Real Food."), offers a $240, 4-day cleanse that has you eating 5 pints of ice each day. For reals.
In a very convincing couple of paragraphs, Kippy's explains (and justifies) the cleanse, hammering home the point that "raw saturated fat helps us digest, repairs the gut, feeds the brain, boosts metabolism," and is pretty much the holy grail for all that ails you. Oh, in addition to all the internal benefits, as a result of living on ice cream for the better part of a week, you'll also lose weight and feel great so, what's not to like?
Call me a skeptic but, even after reading the rationale, I wasn't too sure I bought the concept, I mean, talk about sounding too good to be true. So, I did a little Googling and found a story on Fitmodo by a guy, Brent, who'd taken the cleanse for a spin.
Despite having determined that a pint of Kippy's Truly Raw Coconut contains 820 percent (!) of one's RDA for saturated fat, Brent was an eager participant and dug into his pints with gusto. Aside from a couple of urgent bathroom visits, intermittent lulls in energy and some wacky dreams, the four days passed without much drama and he ended up losing nearly 6 pounds. (Which, in typical post-cleanse fashion, had returned within a week or so.)
"[I] generally felt pretty good for most of it," he writes. "At no point did [I] ever feel truly hungry. Even cravings were very manageable, which was pretty shocking."
So, I was left to digest what I'd learned and ponder… A bottle of blended spinach, beets, ginger and apple or a pint of dark chocolate Himalayan Fire Salt ice cream? Seems like a no-brainer, right?
For most normal people, sure, but, truth be told, I don't even like ice cream all that much. However, in the name of science (?) and because it's my journalistic duty to get to the bottom of these types of critical beauty mysteries, I'd be willing to give an ice cream cleanse a shot.
How about you?
The leaning out, the de-puffing, the clear(ing) complexion -- all aces in my book. And, I absolutely love the no-brainer convenience of reaching for a bottle and not having to plan a meal. Factor in that I genuinely like the way most of them taste (that nasty macadamia milk notwithstanding) and, if they weren't so gosh darn expensive I'd be happy to juice cleanse my way through life.
In fact, I've been contemplating placing order for a 5-day "Excavation Cleanse" -- spring break is just around the corner -- but this morning, something came across my Feedly feed that may have (permanently) altered that plan.
The headline alerted me to the fact that Kippy's, an organic, non-dairy ice cream shop in, where else?, Venice, Calif. is promoting the first-ever "Ice Cream Cleanse." Had it been April 1st, I probably wouldn't even have bothered to click through but, as it turns out, this is on the up and up.
The shop, which scoops Truly. Raw. Gourmet. ice creams and sorbets which are "100% Real Food" ("We use ingredients that are as close as possible to the way nature made them. We never add fillers, emulsifiers, or preservatives (like guar gum or xanthan gum) or anything that is not 100% Real Food."), offers a $240, 4-day cleanse that has you eating 5 pints of ice each day. For reals.
In a very convincing couple of paragraphs, Kippy's explains (and justifies) the cleanse, hammering home the point that "raw saturated fat helps us digest, repairs the gut, feeds the brain, boosts metabolism," and is pretty much the holy grail for all that ails you. Oh, in addition to all the internal benefits, as a result of living on ice cream for the better part of a week, you'll also lose weight and feel great so, what's not to like?
Call me a skeptic but, even after reading the rationale, I wasn't too sure I bought the concept, I mean, talk about sounding too good to be true. So, I did a little Googling and found a story on Fitmodo by a guy, Brent, who'd taken the cleanse for a spin.
Despite having determined that a pint of Kippy's Truly Raw Coconut contains 820 percent (!) of one's RDA for saturated fat, Brent was an eager participant and dug into his pints with gusto. Aside from a couple of urgent bathroom visits, intermittent lulls in energy and some wacky dreams, the four days passed without much drama and he ended up losing nearly 6 pounds. (Which, in typical post-cleanse fashion, had returned within a week or so.)
"[I] generally felt pretty good for most of it," he writes. "At no point did [I] ever feel truly hungry. Even cravings were very manageable, which was pretty shocking."
So, I was left to digest what I'd learned and ponder… A bottle of blended spinach, beets, ginger and apple or a pint of dark chocolate Himalayan Fire Salt ice cream? Seems like a no-brainer, right?
For most normal people, sure, but, truth be told, I don't even like ice cream all that much. However, in the name of science (?) and because it's my journalistic duty to get to the bottom of these types of critical beauty mysteries, I'd be willing to give an ice cream cleanse a shot.
How about you?
"Fit Beer" -- Just What Your Trainer Ordered (?)
A new Canadian brew is looking to hone in on the sports drink market
For years, Draft Magazine, a digest devoted entirely to the art of beer, has had a "Beer Runner" column that's written for the person who's "equally devoted to fine beer appreciation and an active, healthy lifestyle."
I was unaware of this because, if I'm being honest, beer's not my thang and even if it was, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't equate it with clean living.
But, according to something I heard (and then read) on NPR, I could be wrong about the latter. Evidently, beer, in all of its malt and hops glory, is now being touted as a "post workout recovery drink."
(Sometimes you come to work and write about the strangest things.)
Seems that somewhere up in the Great White North, a Canadian brewery has dreamed up a "low alcohol, protein-packed 'fit beer'." Good idea, eh?
Packed with electrolytes, antioxidants and nutrients, Lean Machine "recovery ale," which is being touted as a nutritious alternative to the typical high proof Canadian brews, is the brainchild of a team of scientists at Kelowna, B.C.'s Vampt brewery.
"We just thought that maybe we could do something that would support a drinker, make it still socially fun, and help them accomplish what needs to be accomplished after an aggressive workout," explains Vampt's founder, Ian Toews.
(And, I thought that's what putting vodka in your Gatorade was for. Kidding.)
Ludicrous as this all sounds, NPR talked to a sports nutritionist in Australia who agreed that, if it's formulated properly, a beer could replace some of the electrolytes, carbs and proteins we burn off while exercising. (Anyone envision this Aussie guy as a hottie with a big, blue can of Foster's in his hand?)
Before his brewery embarks on a full scale marketing push, Toews is having Lean Machine heavily tested throughout Canada because, as he says, "Canadians know what a good beer is."
I was unaware of this because, if I'm being honest, beer's not my thang and even if it was, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't equate it with clean living.
But, according to something I heard (and then read) on NPR, I could be wrong about the latter. Evidently, beer, in all of its malt and hops glory, is now being touted as a "post workout recovery drink."
(Sometimes you come to work and write about the strangest things.)
Seems that somewhere up in the Great White North, a Canadian brewery has dreamed up a "low alcohol, protein-packed 'fit beer'." Good idea, eh?
Packed with electrolytes, antioxidants and nutrients, Lean Machine "recovery ale," which is being touted as a nutritious alternative to the typical high proof Canadian brews, is the brainchild of a team of scientists at Kelowna, B.C.'s Vampt brewery.
"We just thought that maybe we could do something that would support a drinker, make it still socially fun, and help them accomplish what needs to be accomplished after an aggressive workout," explains Vampt's founder, Ian Toews.
(And, I thought that's what putting vodka in your Gatorade was for. Kidding.)
Ludicrous as this all sounds, NPR talked to a sports nutritionist in Australia who agreed that, if it's formulated properly, a beer could replace some of the electrolytes, carbs and proteins we burn off while exercising. (Anyone envision this Aussie guy as a hottie with a big, blue can of Foster's in his hand?)
Before his brewery embarks on a full scale marketing push, Toews is having Lean Machine heavily tested throughout Canada because, as he says, "Canadians know what a good beer is."
The Looming Guac-pocalypse, Anna Wintour Sits Second Row(!) and More ...
All the "hey did you hear?" beauty and fashion news you need to know this morning...
• Still think Global Warming is a figment of Al Gore's imagination? Chipotle says that climate change will most likely increase prices on several produce items -- including avocados -- and may force them to stop offering guacamole and some specialized salsas. The chain, which uses, 97,000 pounds of the California-grown fruit every single day and scientists say that rising temps in that state may reduce production by 40 percent in our lifetime. [ThinkProgress
• Sick of slouching over your computer? A French design company may be able to help. The Up T-Shirt "incorporates elastic fabric across the shoulders in such a way that good posture is rewarded by greater comfort" and, they're not half bad looking. Beats walking around the office with a book on your head. [The Week
• For those for whom a run of the mill cotton ball simply won't do, there's a new wave of "luxury cotton pads" popping up on the vanities of the, well, I suppose, ridiculously rich(?). Available from chi-chi brands like Clé de Peau, Chanel and Shiseido for about $20 a pack, the pure cotton pads are marketed as being ridiculously supple, soft and absorbent. And, one pad does the work of as many as 3 to 4 pedestrian cotton balls. #firstworldproblems [Byrdie
•Anna Wintour must've passed that Management: 101 class with flying colors. Vogue's editrix did the nearly unthinkable yesterday by swapping seats with an underling at Valentino's Paris couture show. Jaws were agape when they spotted Wintour in the second row (tantamount to Podunk in couture show geography) but, she was slumming for a good reason; the girl sitting in her front row/center seat is reporting on the collection for, you guessed it, Vogue, and needed a better look. [ The Daily Beast
• Speaking of PFW, makeup artist supreme, Pat McGrath pulled another awe-inspiring look out of her bag o' tricks yesterday at the Alexander McQueen show -- Owl Eyes. “It’s futurism mixed with nature,” McGrath explained. “We decided to do the owl world in a punk eye makeup way.” Spiny black feathers were cut and meticulously glued onto models brows and lashes in a process that took four hours. “When would I ever make it easy?” she deadpanned. [Style.com]
• And, now that we're speaking of feathers … Just when you think you couldn't get any more grossed out by what goes into some beauty products comes this little nugget: chicken feathers will soon be used to plump up your sagging face and help lend shine and bounce to hair. "The feather fiber grinds to a powdery talc making the keratin useful," says the USDA researcher who invented a machine that separates the fiber from the quill of the feather. Each chicken has roughly 10,000 feathers, we consume 8 billion of them each year. I'm no math genius but that leaves us with a lot of feathers lying around looking to be useful. In addition to helping out with beauty items, "The list of things that the [feather derived] keratin-rich material has been used to make is vast: dishes and furniture, clothing, circuit boards, wall insulation, filters, planting pots, shoe soles and hurricane-proof roofing." [Modern Farmer]
READ: 13 Gross Ingredients Hidden in Your Beauty Products
• In celebrity news today, Jessica Alba (she who recently gave Dr. Oz the facial of his life) has been tapped by Braun as the spokesperson for its electronic beauty devices because, "[As] a strong, passionate woman and advocate for others is the perfect ambassador to talk about the role beauty and our products play in helping women feel their best."
Also, after 5 years Katie Holmes and her pal Jeanne Yang have shuttered their cleverly titled Holmes & Yang fashion label. "We would like to express our thanks and appreciation to everyone who contributed to helping the line including our customers, contractors, vendors and the press for their support," the duo said in a statement.
And, finally, in case you didn't get enough of Matthew McConaughey this award season, the newly minted Oscar winner has announced that he's releasing a line of t-shirts emblazoned with his "Alright, Alright, Alright" catchphrase which, in case you're not a card-carrying McConaughfile, was also the first line he ever spoke on film (in "Dazed and Confused). The shirts will be part of his "Just Keep Livin'" collection that's sold exclusively at Dillards. No word as yet on when the tees will hit shelves.
• Sick of slouching over your computer? A French design company may be able to help. The Up T-Shirt "incorporates elastic fabric across the shoulders in such a way that good posture is rewarded by greater comfort" and, they're not half bad looking. Beats walking around the office with a book on your head. [The Week
• For those for whom a run of the mill cotton ball simply won't do, there's a new wave of "luxury cotton pads" popping up on the vanities of the, well, I suppose, ridiculously rich(?). Available from chi-chi brands like Clé de Peau, Chanel and Shiseido for about $20 a pack, the pure cotton pads are marketed as being ridiculously supple, soft and absorbent. And, one pad does the work of as many as 3 to 4 pedestrian cotton balls. #firstworldproblems [Byrdie
•Anna Wintour must've passed that Management: 101 class with flying colors. Vogue's editrix did the nearly unthinkable yesterday by swapping seats with an underling at Valentino's Paris couture show. Jaws were agape when they spotted Wintour in the second row (tantamount to Podunk in couture show geography) but, she was slumming for a good reason; the girl sitting in her front row/center seat is reporting on the collection for, you guessed it, Vogue, and needed a better look. [ The Daily Beast
• Speaking of PFW, makeup artist supreme, Pat McGrath pulled another awe-inspiring look out of her bag o' tricks yesterday at the Alexander McQueen show -- Owl Eyes. “It’s futurism mixed with nature,” McGrath explained. “We decided to do the owl world in a punk eye makeup way.” Spiny black feathers were cut and meticulously glued onto models brows and lashes in a process that took four hours. “When would I ever make it easy?” she deadpanned. [Style.com]
• And, now that we're speaking of feathers … Just when you think you couldn't get any more grossed out by what goes into some beauty products comes this little nugget: chicken feathers will soon be used to plump up your sagging face and help lend shine and bounce to hair. "The feather fiber grinds to a powdery talc making the keratin useful," says the USDA researcher who invented a machine that separates the fiber from the quill of the feather. Each chicken has roughly 10,000 feathers, we consume 8 billion of them each year. I'm no math genius but that leaves us with a lot of feathers lying around looking to be useful. In addition to helping out with beauty items, "The list of things that the [feather derived] keratin-rich material has been used to make is vast: dishes and furniture, clothing, circuit boards, wall insulation, filters, planting pots, shoe soles and hurricane-proof roofing." [Modern Farmer]
READ: 13 Gross Ingredients Hidden in Your Beauty Products
• In celebrity news today, Jessica Alba (she who recently gave Dr. Oz the facial of his life) has been tapped by Braun as the spokesperson for its electronic beauty devices because, "[As] a strong, passionate woman and advocate for others is the perfect ambassador to talk about the role beauty and our products play in helping women feel their best."
Also, after 5 years Katie Holmes and her pal Jeanne Yang have shuttered their cleverly titled Holmes & Yang fashion label. "We would like to express our thanks and appreciation to everyone who contributed to helping the line including our customers, contractors, vendors and the press for their support," the duo said in a statement.
And, finally, in case you didn't get enough of Matthew McConaughey this award season, the newly minted Oscar winner has announced that he's releasing a line of t-shirts emblazoned with his "Alright, Alright, Alright" catchphrase which, in case you're not a card-carrying McConaughfile, was also the first line he ever spoke on film (in "Dazed and Confused). The shirts will be part of his "Just Keep Livin'" collection that's sold exclusively at Dillards. No word as yet on when the tees will hit shelves.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Whiten My Teeth at the Mall? You're Joking, Right?
When I was 9, I auditioned for a role in my summer camp's production of "Winnie the Pooh." I couldn't wait for the Head Counselor to post the casting results on the mess hall wall. Would I be playing Christopher Robbin? (It was an all-girl camp.) Or maybe even, dare I hope, Pooh himself?
What seemed like days later, the list was finally tacked up and while my name did appear, turned out I wasn't to play either of those lead characters. Instead I was cast as the sun. The freakingSUN. What?
When I mustered the guts to ask why they'd thought I was suited to the part, they told me it was because my smile could light up a room -- just like the sun lights up the world. Gimme a break.
I mean, sure it's true, I was blessed with nice teeth. They've always been super-white and I never needed braces (though I thought retainers were so cool that I wore a bent paper clip in my mouth throughout most of the fourth grade). But, because of them I was relegated to playing the sun? Clearly I've never gotten over it.
Now umpteen years later I find myself longing to be cast in that part again -- minus the giant yellow orb costume. Why? After seeing pictures of myself over the past several months, I've realized that my once pearly whites are significantly less so. Don't know why. I don't drink red wine or coffee or even soda (I've been Diet Coke free for three years and two days -- but who's counting?). So, what gives?
I asked my dentist and he said it was just normal "wear and tear" on my teeth, and would I like to have them whitened? Um. Sure. And, I'd also like a Malibu beach house, but as a single mother of two who gets zero child support I'm not about to indulge on such a thing.
Hmm. Other options? Well, I could head to the mall and lie there with a blue light emanating from my mouth as Cinnabon-clutching teens snicker? I'd rather have dingy teeth, thanks.
But if the mall's too unappealing and the pro whitening's too expensive, what's left? Do those drugstore whiteners really work?
Yes. According to Dr. Michael Apa, a partner in the Rosenthal/Apa Group on Manhattan's Upper East Side where he works exclusively on aesthetic and restorative dentistry. He suggests that his patients use a whitening toothpaste daily and also recommends using Crest Weekly Clean Intensive Cleaning Paste, $14.99, saying that "[It] is a good product that has heavy silica ingredients to brush stains away."
Well, OK then, I'm willing to try anything once. Will let you know how it goes -- and also if I get mistaken for the sun again anytime soon.
Do you whiten your teeth? What do you use?
What seemed like days later, the list was finally tacked up and while my name did appear, turned out I wasn't to play either of those lead characters. Instead I was cast as the sun. The freakingSUN. What?
When I mustered the guts to ask why they'd thought I was suited to the part, they told me it was because my smile could light up a room -- just like the sun lights up the world. Gimme a break.
I mean, sure it's true, I was blessed with nice teeth. They've always been super-white and I never needed braces (though I thought retainers were so cool that I wore a bent paper clip in my mouth throughout most of the fourth grade). But, because of them I was relegated to playing the sun? Clearly I've never gotten over it.
Now umpteen years later I find myself longing to be cast in that part again -- minus the giant yellow orb costume. Why? After seeing pictures of myself over the past several months, I've realized that my once pearly whites are significantly less so. Don't know why. I don't drink red wine or coffee or even soda (I've been Diet Coke free for three years and two days -- but who's counting?). So, what gives?
I asked my dentist and he said it was just normal "wear and tear" on my teeth, and would I like to have them whitened? Um. Sure. And, I'd also like a Malibu beach house, but as a single mother of two who gets zero child support I'm not about to indulge on such a thing.
Hmm. Other options? Well, I could head to the mall and lie there with a blue light emanating from my mouth as Cinnabon-clutching teens snicker? I'd rather have dingy teeth, thanks.
But if the mall's too unappealing and the pro whitening's too expensive, what's left? Do those drugstore whiteners really work?
Yes. According to Dr. Michael Apa, a partner in the Rosenthal/Apa Group on Manhattan's Upper East Side where he works exclusively on aesthetic and restorative dentistry. He suggests that his patients use a whitening toothpaste daily and also recommends using Crest Weekly Clean Intensive Cleaning Paste, $14.99, saying that "[It] is a good product that has heavy silica ingredients to brush stains away."
Well, OK then, I'm willing to try anything once. Will let you know how it goes -- and also if I get mistaken for the sun again anytime soon.
Do you whiten your teeth? What do you use?
I'm a Snob
I came to a semi-alarming realization this week: I think I may very well be a snob.
It's not that I don't deign to do certain things or deem certain situations, places, and people as beneath me. It more has to do with what I will and will not wear. Shallow? Absolutely. Non-negotiable? Pretty much.
Let me back track a bit. One of my co-workers was writing a very clever story on the 11 Celebrity Fragrances Our Editors Are Embarrassed to Love. And, it got me to thinking. I don't care HOW much I love a J. Lo or a Jennifer Aniston or a (perish the thought) Britney Spears scent -- there is NO WAY I would ever, ever, wear it. "Embarrassed" is one thing. Categorically shunning something based on something so shallow is another.
So, in an effort to try to rid myself of this despicable shortcoming, I tried to picture myself in CVS picking up the (no doubt tacky) box and heading on over to the register. But I couldn't even visualize such a thing. WHY? The cashier wouldn't care (after all, she sells enemas and personal lubricants and nose hair clippers all day). No one would have to "know" and I'd smell good, right? I guess. But, still, try as I might, this mental scenario was a no go.
This saddens me. Am I so wrapped up in what people think that I'd deny myself an affordable, good-smelling scent just because I think it's cheesy? The answer is a resounding yes.
How do I cure myself? (Short of some sort of intervention where my friends and family arrive armed with boxes of Kate Walsh and Halle Berry and (aaaaack!) Paris Hilton/Jessica Simpson perfume?) I know that not everyone feels this way -- after all, these starlets rake in mega bucks with these olfactory endeavors. So there has to be a way to just get over my lame self and spritz along with the hoi polloi.
I've got this. Give me a month and you'll have a whole new (super-smelling) evolved blogger on your hands.
It's not that I don't deign to do certain things or deem certain situations, places, and people as beneath me. It more has to do with what I will and will not wear. Shallow? Absolutely. Non-negotiable? Pretty much.
Let me back track a bit. One of my co-workers was writing a very clever story on the 11 Celebrity Fragrances Our Editors Are Embarrassed to Love. And, it got me to thinking. I don't care HOW much I love a J. Lo or a Jennifer Aniston or a (perish the thought) Britney Spears scent -- there is NO WAY I would ever, ever, wear it. "Embarrassed" is one thing. Categorically shunning something based on something so shallow is another.
So, in an effort to try to rid myself of this despicable shortcoming, I tried to picture myself in CVS picking up the (no doubt tacky) box and heading on over to the register. But I couldn't even visualize such a thing. WHY? The cashier wouldn't care (after all, she sells enemas and personal lubricants and nose hair clippers all day). No one would have to "know" and I'd smell good, right? I guess. But, still, try as I might, this mental scenario was a no go.
This saddens me. Am I so wrapped up in what people think that I'd deny myself an affordable, good-smelling scent just because I think it's cheesy? The answer is a resounding yes.
How do I cure myself? (Short of some sort of intervention where my friends and family arrive armed with boxes of Kate Walsh and Halle Berry and (aaaaack!) Paris Hilton/Jessica Simpson perfume?) I know that not everyone feels this way -- after all, these starlets rake in mega bucks with these olfactory endeavors. So there has to be a way to just get over my lame self and spritz along with the hoi polloi.
I've got this. Give me a month and you'll have a whole new (super-smelling) evolved blogger on your hands.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Do You Want Great Skin Badly Enough to Hop On the Colonic Train?
Proponents of intestinal cleansing claim that clear, glowing skin is but one of the ancillary benefits
In our never-ending quest for perfect, dewy, youthful (insert your own adjective here) skin, a must-try treatment du jour pops up, if not literally every jour, with staggering regularity.
From new, groundbreaking technologies to rare ingredients farmed from high atop the Himalayas, skin care is a constantly evolving, bazillion dollar business.
These days, we're hearing a lot about forgetting topical remedies and procedures and confronting skin issues from the inside out -- and we're not talking vitamin supplements or making sure to crunch away on kale chips.
Lately, more and more women have been turning to colonics to help them achieve the ever-elusive clear skin they crave.
Just so we're all on the same page without getting too graphic (in case you're reading this over breakfast), colon cleansing is "a process employing a number of alternative medical therapies intended to remove feces and nonspecific toxins from the colon and intestinal tract."
Got it? Good. Then you're equipped to read this next quote from Tracy Piper, director of NYC's Piper Center for Internal Wellness.
"What happens in the colon is directly seen in the skin," she says. "So when I see a person with chronic acne, to me they are pooping through their skin. That may sound harsh, but it will give people a wake up call as to pay attention to what is going in inside will show on the outside. The skin is the organ that we see that tells us if we are internally fit, so pay attention as it can save you from longstanding issues later on."
"The results were astounding," a fan told Well&Good. "By removing all of the toxins from my system and replacing them with essential nutrients, my skin started to glow. It was obvious. People commented and questioned what I was using on my skin. I told them the only reason why my skin looked this way was because of the detox --because of the removal of all of the s**t (literally!) from my system."
Exciting stuff, right? Not so fast. While you can find any number of articles extolling the virtues of colonic therapies for clearing up your skin, as with any "controversial" topic, there are just as many that debunk the process, with some even claiming that it's a detrimental and risky proposition. So, as with any procedure, it's best to do your research and weigh your pros and cons before diving in. Or, flushing out.
In our never-ending quest for perfect, dewy, youthful (insert your own adjective here) skin, a must-try treatment du jour pops up, if not literally every jour, with staggering regularity.
From new, groundbreaking technologies to rare ingredients farmed from high atop the Himalayas, skin care is a constantly evolving, bazillion dollar business.
These days, we're hearing a lot about forgetting topical remedies and procedures and confronting skin issues from the inside out -- and we're not talking vitamin supplements or making sure to crunch away on kale chips.
Lately, more and more women have been turning to colonics to help them achieve the ever-elusive clear skin they crave.
Just so we're all on the same page without getting too graphic (in case you're reading this over breakfast), colon cleansing is "a process employing a number of alternative medical therapies intended to remove feces and nonspecific toxins from the colon and intestinal tract."
Got it? Good. Then you're equipped to read this next quote from Tracy Piper, director of NYC's Piper Center for Internal Wellness.
"What happens in the colon is directly seen in the skin," she says. "So when I see a person with chronic acne, to me they are pooping through their skin. That may sound harsh, but it will give people a wake up call as to pay attention to what is going in inside will show on the outside. The skin is the organ that we see that tells us if we are internally fit, so pay attention as it can save you from longstanding issues later on."
"The results were astounding," a fan told Well&Good. "By removing all of the toxins from my system and replacing them with essential nutrients, my skin started to glow. It was obvious. People commented and questioned what I was using on my skin. I told them the only reason why my skin looked this way was because of the detox --because of the removal of all of the s**t (literally!) from my system."
Exciting stuff, right? Not so fast. While you can find any number of articles extolling the virtues of colonic therapies for clearing up your skin, as with any "controversial" topic, there are just as many that debunk the process, with some even claiming that it's a detrimental and risky proposition. So, as with any procedure, it's best to do your research and weigh your pros and cons before diving in. Or, flushing out.
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