Post-mortem

Michael Jackson's death has stirred up a lot of emotions from a lot of people.

I remember when Elvis died. We were visiting some friends of my parents, and I was with their daughter, several years older than me, when we heard of his passing. She immediately drove us to the nearest shopping center to purchase some of his albums. I don't know how much of his music she already owned, or even IF she owned any, but it was as if she was on a mission to honor him by spending some money. Just a moment ago, I read that MJ's music is flying off the shelves.

Am I missing something? It seems like the last time I heard anything about him, Mr. Jackson was up to his eyeballs in debt and suspicion. I seem to recall that at one point he was living in Saudi Arabia, avoiding the spotlight all together. Maybe I'm remembering wrong, but I thought his image had been tarnished by the Neverland allegations and his apparent obsession with altering his appearance.

But now, he is gone, and suddenly none of that seems to matter. I certainly don't know what went on behind the scenes in his life, but I do know that for a time, there were a lot of very angry people accusing him of molesting their children. How are those people feeling, watching the spectacle of a mourning public, some resplendent in white gloves and sequins?

Death is like a big eraser, as if the reel of your life's story is suddenly edited for content. Sins are forgiven, or at least not mentioned, and a haze of gentle sunshine seems to shine on the deceased and his memory. When my father died, I did his eulogy, and even though he had not been a good parent, I found myself doing my best to say as many nice things about him as I could. I remember writing and re-writing that speech, trying to balance the truth with kindness. I was determined to be honest, but to be respectful to his memory, even though my memories of him were anything but good ones.

What is it that makes us perform this ritual? Is it a true desire to forgive and forget, or is it that we hope others will treat us with the same deference when we're gone? I'll be curious to see what happens in the weeks and months to come, as we learn more about MJ's passing.

And as an aside, I am saddened that while her life was just as rich and her story equally poignant, Farrah Fawcett's passing seems to have faded well into the background. Anyone who witnessed the TV special a month ago that documented her fight with cancer can tell you that she was also a remarkable human being with a story to tell.

May we all try to live lives that require a minimum of posthumous re-writing, and when we goof, may we be fortunate enough to have friends and family around that will gladly cut us some slack.

The cure's worse than the disease

I spent last week at the beach with my mom, my husband, son, and my husband's mother. It was a wonderful week, full of rest and recuperation from what has been a watershed year.

In my quest to do no further damage to my already-destroyed skin (from all of those years in the backyard honing the perfect tan), I have been working really hard to stay out of the direct sun for years. I'm trying to undo damage, as well, which means being hypervigilant about sunscreen. And this vacation, I was, emphasis on the "hyper." First, my regular SPF 40, the stuff I normally wear. Then breakfast, then another layer of SPF 65, then another layer of zinc oxide/titanium dioxide for a physical block on top of the two chemical blocks.

Yes, I realize how insane this sounds.

Not surprisingly, I got absolutely no color. None. In fact, I think I'm paler now than before we went. In addition to the triple SPF protection, I also sat under a tent with long sleeves, a hat, and a book in front of my face, partly for entertainment, partly for the blocking effect against any errant UV rays bouncing off of the sand. Oh, and I never sat outside between 11 and 4.

This week I look like I've had the worst sunburn of my life. Not from sunburn, oh no, but from the wear and tear of trying to wash the 3D sunscreen off my face every day. I'm peely and tight, red and sore. On Tuesday, it actually hurt to smile, and my left cheek was so swollen that if I glanced down, I could see it.

A friend said I looked like I'd had a chemical peel. Well, I have. A self-induced one, but a chemical peel nonetheless. Could I be onto something? We'll see after my skin stops sloughing off. I've been diligently putting on Vitamin E oil day and night, and I have a sneaking suspicion that all of my pores are clogging and next week will erupt into a mountainscape of acne. So I'll go from 90-year-0ld skin to 13-year-old skin.

And I complain that I'm stuck in a rut.