Going for the Jugular
Tickles, tulips, and a tranquil New England beach escape.
Hello, it’s little Friday! By which I mean Thursday, certainly the best of the weekdays, and arguably, one of the best days of the entire week. Thursday shines with all the anticipation of the coming weekend, still un-smudged by reality. My Thursday promises a particularly golden few days ahead, as I leave for sunny Charleston shortly, but I hope yours brings a breeze and a feeling of lightness, wherever you are.
I never think about my neck, and that seems to be the whole problem.
Fair skin that burns in a minute may have saved me from my peers’ college tanning bed habit (Gen Z would never), but I was still late to catch the daily SPF bus. Once I snagged my seat, though, I was gold star diligent with regular sunscreen application, especially after I started running. Face, ears, and décolletage received particular attention, and the rest of me got a thorough spray before I entered the sunshine.
You’ll notice I didn’t include my neck. And that is because….I never included my neck. Not when I applied sunblock, not when I put on moisturizer. In looking back on this great mystery, I’ve wondered: did I subconsciously think of my face as a balcony or a tree, imagining it casting a protective shade onto my neck? I do have a lot of hair. Of course, this is a ridiculous notion; my neck was out there soaking up the rays with the rest of me, largely unprotected and, I have to say, largely unbothered.
My blissful neck oblivion ended this year.
The very first thing the nurse said to me, quite cheerfully, was: “Okay, let’s get you set for your breast reduction!” I was not in a plastic surgeon’s office at 8 am for a breast reduction. The greeting, a charting mistake on their part, didn’t offend me, but did heighten the baby’s-first-plastic-surgery vibe of that rainy Monday morning. I perched on the crinkly paper of the exam table, trying not to swing my legs, surrounded by posters for CoolSculpting and Juvéderm. Every single person working in the office, from the front desk staff to the surgeon himself, was enjoying the perks of the job: their lips were plump, puffed, juicy to the point of perpetual duckface.
I’m not here to skewer anyone for how they choose to enhance their appearance. Let’s be honest: vanity brought me to this office as well, sent by my dermatologist in hopes of achieving a “better scar outcome.” But because the lip transformation was so universal and exaggerated across the staff, I wondered how working in plastic surgery might warp perspective over time, how altering one’s reflection might also alter one’s ability to see it. I’ve had to work through a bit of my own self-blindness lately, so who am I to judge.
I stretched back in the chair and submitted to being draped with sterile cloths, eyes covered and neck bared. Internal alarm bells clanged. The sensation of being simultaneously blind and exposed surprised me in how viscerally I disliked it. See, I am unreasonably ticklish, my neck most of all. I had believed the medical setting would shut off my tickle reflex, as really, there’s nothing funny or flirty about a scalpel charting a delicate path across one’s neck. Instead, I involuntarily giggled (kill me) and wiggled at various points throughout the procedure.
The surgeon paused, staring right into my soul (okay, okay, I couldn’t see him, but my vibe detector is quite sophisticated): “Wow. You are ticklish, aren’t you?” A ticklish child, darling. A ticklish adult, embarrassing in most contexts. There’s an unspoken sense of control yourself. And dang, wouldn’t I have loved to! The procedure was short and otherwise routine; I left forty minutes later with pre-cancerous skin cells removed and a tiny row of stitches in their place. You could hardly describe the small spot on my neck as a close call, but yet I emerged into a wet, puddled world with a clear sense of resolve, a new grasp of what really matters.
Sunscreen, of course.
The weekend draws near. Maybe you should….
Set your table with tulips. Tulips are such a melodramatic flower they practically require a fainting couch, but spring truly is their time to shine. Use a taller vessel than you might think to corral the stems if you are not a fan of visual drama; otherwise, let those ladies take the stage any way they like.
Prepare for Monday’s solar eclipse by reading this 1982 Annie Dillard essay about her experience of a total eclipse. Plan to be gobsmacked by her writing. I was warned and still wasn’t ready for what she did with language.
the Lark suite at Gables Contemplate a future getaway to Gables at Block Island Beach House. Just seven miles long, Block Island is a tiny island off the coast of Rhode Island. The star attractions on Block Island are the unspoiled beaches, birding havens, and Gables, a lovely, airy boutique hotel that reimagines what a coastal destination should look and feel like. Consider if you are compelled by clear countertops, favor the beach at sunrise, own a state park pass, or have ever downloaded a birding app.
Now, your turn. I love hearing from you—reply and tell me what your weekend holds.