Lifesavers – Suzanne Wexler

When Holiday Gifting, Consider The (Wo)Man Hours

*From Huffington Post Canada

I’m no Scrooge. I love the gift-giving spirit. Yeah, as a teen in the ’90s, I railed against the false pretenses and corniness. But now I think the concept of a “Hallmark holiday” is positively quaint. The prospect of buying a gift from an actual bricks-and-mortar store — as in, not from Amazon.com or www.gilt.com, where I do the vast majority of my shopping — and then attaching an actual handwritten card to it, warms my heart.

That said, overthinking the perfect object to anoint each and every festivity is not an indulgence I am allowing myself this time of year.

Canadian adults are expected to spend about $950 on gifts and holiday décor combined. Jaw-dropping as that dollar amount may be, there is another factor to consider: The (wo)man-hours involved in all this decision-making.

Because for some of us, trying to figure out whether or not to gift that spiffy Disney-themed LED light is a process that can take upwards of 20 minutes — and I haven’t even including the wrapping part, since in my current world, I’ve eliminated this problem altogether by insisting on only using re-usable totes. My no-wrapping policy eases my conscience about waste, though I acknowledge there’s more to be done.

I’m currently juggling Hanukkah, birthdays, kids parties, Christmas get-togethers, holiday mixers, baby showers, new houses and a whole bulk of charity gift-giving occasions. My brain is as spent as my wallet.

As such, I’ve come up with helpful strategies to curb my holiday shopping hemming and hawing.

First, I’ve implemented the “five-minute rule” when choosing a gift. I set the timer on my phone. Usually, I ignore it when it goes off, but it’s a start.

Second, when possible, I’ll repeat presents I give. If it’s appropriate, I’ll buy Champagne, or reasonably priced “pink bubbly,” usually Mumm Napa or Louis Bouillot. I have a variety of fun, original items from the MoMA store stored in my gift closet at home, along with boxes of Zingo and a bonanza of Fingerling monkeys.

Third, when buying a custom gift for someone, I now encourage him or her to exchange it. Self-imposed time constraints may result in me giving less-optimal gifts, and so I’ve decided to adopt a realistic attitude about returns.

In the spirit of my new “less time, less waste” holiday policy, I have jotted up an open letter to all my gifts recipients, expressing the sentiment above and how they might play out. I encourage others to use these letters as templates for their special someone, too, though I’ll warn you — they are a wee tongue in cheek (insert: winky face).

To my close friend, Miss Fantastic:

They say it’s the thought that counts, but I’m spare on thinking nowadays. Please return or exchange this gift I bought you, no offence taken. Actually, I’d be thrilled that you chimed in on the matter. I bought you those silky pajamas in black with the white trim since they were more practical. Personally, I preferred the pristine, less functional white ones with the black trim. If you happen to agree — and we often do — please use the gift receipt provided.

To my son, Pookie-Angelface:

I know you’re obsessed with fire trucks, dump trucks, and all kinds of oversized vehicles. But standing at the store, I couldn’t bring myself to buy another one. So I grabbed the cream-coloured vintage car since I thought it was cute and slightly different from your other toys. More to the point, decisions needed to be made — I had to get home to relieve your sitter. If you hate the car, I’ll exchange it for you. This was a gamble I had to make at the time.

To my friend’s four-year-old daughter:

I wanted to buy you Barbie for your birthday, but I understood that she’s controversial. Also, is Barbie appropriate for a girl your age? Hard to know. Therefore, I plucked an eco-chic design-your-own tutu kit from my storage gift closet at home instead. I’m petrified of global warming, so giving you this earthy-inspired gift made me feel (slightly) better about myself, even if I might be the victim of green-washing. Most importantly, it settled that whole Barbie issue. If you’re more into dolls than crafty tutus, it’s cool with me if you re-gift it to one of your young pals, or even put it in a donation box.

To my darling husband:

You are the one exception that shall prove my “please return or exchange or re-gift this gift” rule. Because whatever you do, DO NOT RETURN, NOR LOOK UP THE PRICE of those John Varvatos sneakers I bought you on Black Friday weekend. I swear I got them on sale, just slightly more than the price I might have shared with you. Also, you cannot return or exchange them anyhow, so why bother getting into a tizzy over it? They look fantastic. Keep them. I beg.

Finally, to others who might not adore what I give you at this present-happy time of year: Please understand that I’m back-logged on wedding gifts from last summer, and while I’m confessing, I have two outstanding presents that I still haven’t delivered from the summer before that.

So this holiday season, when I arrive at your function, please accept my digestible, perishable or pulled-from-the-shelf gift in the handsome tote provided. And if you feel the need to re-use, recycle or return its contents, be my guest. I’d be especially pleased if you re-gifted that Champagne back to me.

HOW I TRIED TO REJECT KIM KARDASHIAN-STYLE MATERNITY DRESSING AND FAILED

*Story appeared in Huffington Post Canada.

Fancy-dancy baby bumps are all the rage, especially among the celeb set. And when I first got pregnant, it felt like Kate, Kim et al. were staring me down from the grocery aisles. Goading me into joining the fun.

But nay, I thought in protest. Maternity fashion was vanity gone haywire. Yeah, yeah, I loved dressing-up more than pretty much everyone I knew, but suction tight maternity dresses and bikini-clad #babybump selfies seemed to be crossing a line. The message: Women should (should! Bwa-haw-haw!) look their best always–before and after their water broke.

So I had a revelation, “I am going to let myself go!”–for those nine months. I would allow my body to roar au naturel. Also, to help combat wasteful capitalism–which I myself was often guilty of–I refused to buy a whole new maternity wardrobe. I was bringing a new life into the world, after all. It was time to be practical, ethical. Maybe I’d purchase some elastic-waist jeans, leggings, a few tops, but that was it.

For a few months, I lived on as this low-maintenance person. I wore whatever fit in my closet. I felt, um, good. Relaxed. “No nausea,” I reported to anyone who’d listen, as if this reflected my even keeled psychological state.

But by month five even my husband’s button downs were splitting on me like sausage casings. Still, half-imagining myself to be practical, I decided to buy large sized normal pieces (read: non-maternity) that I could re-wear postpartum, say with a belt.

Sweats weren’t exactly versatile. Rather, I needed just a few key outfits that could work from day to night–especially night. A pink A-line dress, a white kaftan, and a silky maxi soon followed. I brought them to my tailor, since roomy regular clothes don’t quite fit the way proper maternity ones might. A slit here and a plunging neckline there guided the eye just so–as in, away from my swollen hips and legs, and the grim-reaper veins on my ankles and hands.

True, it was all a tad indulgent, but overall, my plan still erred on sensibility. Or so I told myself.
I wore my new white kaftan for my stroll to the coffee shop. Compliments ensued, from baristas, from people on the street. “Hey hot mama,” a passenger hooted out a car window.

Did you say “hot mama?” Far from offended, the praise went down better than my vanilla Frappuccino–a wild declaration for this pregnant chick to make. And though the tiny growing baby inside couldn’t hear their words, I imagined he or she was feeding off my buzz. And that was when it occurred to me: My low-maintenance days were probably over.

“Wow, you look lovely,” my husband nuzzled into my neck. I had on the kaftan again, since I only had three outfits. But this time I wore it with wedges. And I got a blow out. Because it was near-impossible to flip over for my hair dryer with my gut.

Oh, yeah! Full of hormones, and knowing that the numbers on my scale were dashing up the ranks, the flattery made me feel like I was a star of some kind–even if just the star of my own life. Finally. After nearly two decades of agonizing dating, all that studying and working and weighing my talents against a tanking market–then to at last to find my love, get married, I finally, finally became pregnant!

And I was fancy!

I stormed back to my genius tailor, Hussein Padar, with a new python maxi, a khaki tunic, two navy print dresses, another kaftan, and a red spaghetti strap number. I bought them mostly on sale, mostly online. A few were donated from friends. Et voila. After his strategic sewing, I had a made-to-measure maternity wardrobe. Here I come! I mean, here we come.

Yet with each decadent step forward, my guilt followed. It wasn’t so much about spending money, because I knew I’d re-wear most things post-partum. Rather, I felt like I was endorsing the position that expecting women couldn’t take a frump day–that regardless of their health, wealth, or state of mind, women had to be attractive at all times.

But did I need to be a sex object 24/7 to the horrors of my internalized Gloria Steinem (pre-Sanders women-bashing Steinem, that is)?

Um, apparently.

Because I loved the praise–especially since every other person seemed to wonder if I was carrying twins, which I wasn’t (“are you sure?”). And I wasn’t covering up my stomach with a muumuu as pregnant women did decades ago. Instead, I was felt like shining at 150-plus-plus-pounds and with a 40-plus-plus-inch waist. At age 30-something, yet. I was a soon-to-be mom, not a teeny twenty-something we’re led to believe is the pinnacle of beauty, and I felt terrific. Curvy.

Most importantly, I had this telekinetic belief that adorning my bump was introducing my growing baby to the splendors of life, like flowers and artwork.

A second thought settled in: Maybe maternity fashion wasn’t the devil incarnate after all; maybe there was something glorious about all these proud mommies grooming themselves and their young to be — and trying to attract their mates, despite having already mated. And if this amounted to celebs flaunting bandage dresses and crop tops with their blossoming midriffs, so be it. All this excess could be evidence of a good thing. The best thing.

It was now obvious to me: #babybump signaled that a new rounder, more maternal beauty standard was finally en-vogue. I had to raise my half-filled champagne glass to that.

So, during my recent second pregnancy, it was time for my sequel performance. My costumes were pressed and ready to go. As I waddled about with my beach ball stomach that held my 10-lb baby.

“You’re HUMONGOUS!” they cried.

Oh yeah! Bring it on. I took plenty of pics this time.

–SUZANNE WEXLER

Winter Skin

Experts weigh-in on how to keep your skin fresh in the freezing cold. Hot baths deemed ok, while microdermabrasion gets placed on worst-idea-ever list. *This article originally appeared in the Montreal Gazette.

Here I am at my desk, fearing this keyboard will zap me again. These vicious shocks make my hair stand on end, then collapse over my face like a static-cling blanket. And the worst winter dryness problem is my skin. As I type this, my hands are cracking and my elbows sting with every brush of the armrest.

Fortunately, my face is like an oasis of moisture. I took preventive measures with monthly facials, which seem to have done the trick. The rest of me, however, has quite a ways to go. Beauty in the winter is no simple affair. Like many Montrealers, I’d love to be traipsing around at my best, but I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. As such, I’ve been speaking to experts about the in’s and out’s of winter beauty. Here’s what they had to say.

THE SKIN

“The main reason for what’s called ‘winter itch’ or ‘winter skin’ is lack of humidity,” said Wayne Carey, dermatologist at the Carey Wang Centre for Dermatology and Dermatologic Surgery in Westmount Square. “It’s a unique problem in winter climates, where relative humidity decreases as you go farther north.”

Since water in your skin naturally equalizes with the moisture in the air, dehydrated skin is usually just a temporary problem. Take a jaunt down to Florida, Carey points out, and your skin should glow again in almost a day.
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