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moulting season

The good news: I lost about 2 pounds today.

The bad news: It was 100 percent skin!

I held out for as long as I could, slathering my body with gooey, oil-laden body-washes, applying handful after handful of thick creams, shunning the loofah, the pumice or any device or method that threatened to breach the ever so thin line between 'bronze, sun-showered goddess' and 'peeling reptilian hag'.

It's been 11 days since I returned from Trinidad, and, as is my custom after this annual pilgrimage, I have been living in denial of the natural process of skin renewal. Hoping to hold on to my deep almond glow for as long as possible, I abandoned my regular exfoliation regimen while my scrubby bath gloves lay neglected on the edge of the tub. But tonight in the shower, I bit the bullet, and scrubbed every reachable inch of my skin with reckless abandon. IT FELT GOOD!

Not wanting to immediately witness the resulting carnage, I remained cloistered in the the steamy bathroom for half an hour afterwards, coaxing drop after drop of body oil into my stripped epidermis, until I was satisfied that I had staved off the inevitable, itchy aftermath.

So here I sit, heavily oiled, swathed in toasty garments, and contemplating how I will react to the spectre of my naked, peeling self in tomorrow's cold morning light.

Please excuse me while I search for a suitable shroud for my wall mirror...

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