Minding my own beeswax

Next month will mark 14 years since I last had a drink of alcohol (no thanks to super douchebag chef Alain Ducasse for marring that streak last year -- see "What a Ducasshole!" blog). It will also be nearly 17 years since I quit smoking and 19 since I dabbled in drugs. During the intervening years, I've had an ocean of Sprite while steering clear of new addictions such as fantasy football and all-you-can-eat buffets.

And yet, my mind somehow managed to sneak in a very big one, right under my nose: lip balm.

Before today, moistening my lips with Burt's Bees honey lip balm was something I did every 10 minutes or so without thinking. But, while applying the gooey sweetness this afternoon, I remembered a seemingly-inconsequential exchange I'd had over the holiday with my Mom:

Sitting on her couch in RI, my Mom casually mentioned a story she'd seen on TV about lip balm addiction and how it reminded her of me. "Really? Why?" She raised an "are you kidding me?" eyebrow and returned to watching the "On Demand" yule log on TV. I went back to applying lip balm.

One week later, there I was, reaching for the Burt's Bees that's permanently stationed below the radio in my car. I recounted the story to my Man, who was sitting in the passenger seat, also applying lip balm. He scoffed at the idea. "Lip balm addiction. Please."

The idea continued to fester in my head. I Googled "lip balm addiction" on my BlackBerry and somehow managed an epiphany while weaving through heavy traffic on the BQE into Manhattan: "Christ on a moped, I've replaced alcohol and cigarettes with lip balm!"

Granted, enjoying my stick of goo won't ever have me wondering, "where did I park my house?" or "is this tracheotomy really necessary?" -- but it's still an oral fixation not unlike all the others I'd been so careful to quit.

And, I'm pretty sure it's an addiction: I tried going without it for the 20-minute ride home...and failed. Maybe it was the 28-degree weather outside or dry, heated air in the car but my lips "cracked" like Pookie in New Jack City with just one mile to go.


Smoking my tube of beeswax and then basking in the post-moisture high.

So, now what? Do I give this up, too? Take a Burt's Bees inventory and throw the cracksticks into the heap along with vodka and Marlboro Lights? That's crazy! I mean, even if I did, it'd take for-f'n-ever to unearth all of my sticky stashes -- there's a lot of honey lip goo flowing around here.

Consider this cursory glance around the apartment:
1. living room, on the stand near the couch
2. living room, hanging on the wall in my coat pocket
3. bedroom, on the bedside stand near my side of the bed
4. bedroom, on the desk by the computer
5. den, on the desk by the laptop
6. den, on the bottom book shelf
7. bathroom, two tubes still in packaging
8. dining room, at the bottom of my purse
9. dining room, in the outside zipper of my purse
10. right pocket of the hoodie currently on my body

Aside from being a great exercise to teach kids prepositional phrases, it's also a terrifying survey of lips whose thirst for beeswax seems unquenchable.

And, that doesn't even begin to touch the staggering number of J/A/S/O/N and Burt's Bees tubes in the apartment that belong to my Man, who is a bigger balmhead than me. He WEARS a tube of lip balm around his neck like a lifeguard, for crying out loud. His misplacement of my goo has led to many panic-stricken moments in which I race around the apartment like an asthmatic desperately searching for an inhaler. At this rate, our children might need lip balm in utero instead of amniotic fluid.

While I don't like the idea of being addicted, I guess there are worse things I could rub on my mouth every 10 minutes, like dog shit or random body parts (mine or otherwise). Today's realization just struck me as being a cruel joke: try as we might, we can never truly be free of addictions. Freedom is an illusion disguised as choice: good or bad, CVS or crackhouse, moisturized lips or black lung?

Addendum
I applied lip balm no less than 20 times while writing this blog. Thinking about it seems to trigger the impulse to apply. I'll bet fellow balmheads applied several times while reading.

Surprisingly, there's a lot of attention being paid to this topic by reputable media outlets (the Washington Post -- really?). Just a quick search online turns up a few interesting nuggets:

Get over your lip balm addiction
By Julia Feldmeier | Special to The Washington Post
December 28, 2008
(which concludes with) Reach instead for your water bottle. Most of us don't drink enough water, and the hydration will only help your lips.

Beating Your Addiction (from the BBC)
(which claims) Lip balm addiction is just another form of substance abuse. Over time you become dependent on it, and getting out involves some necessary and unavoidable discomfort. In truth, you don't need the product, because most of the time you create your own problem - by licking your lips.

Lip Balm Anonymous (a parody set up in '95 by a Web developer)
Lip Balm Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other so that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from their addiction. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using lip balm and there are never any fees for membership as we are self supported through our own contributions. We are not affiliated with any sect, denomination, political organization, or institution.

Are Lip Balms Addictive? (a special page on Blistex.com)
(lots of blurbs from the media poo-pooing the idea of lip balm addiction) Excerpted from the Australian edition of Cosmopolitan Magazine, December, 2002:
"Since dry lips can be a chronic condition and balms provide immediate relief, habitual use may feel like an addiction," says David Leffell, a professor of dermatology at Yale University. "But there's no ingredient that causes a true chemical dependency."

What a Ducassehole!

Sunday marked the 13th anniversary of my sobriety. Yep, I haven't had a drink in 13 years. That's 676 weeks; 4,745 days; 113,880 hours and 23 minutes (but who's counting?).

I can't be sure because shit really was THAT fugged up back then but I'm pretty certain my last fall-down-the-stairs binge was Feb. 17, 1995. I only know this because it was the Saturday after Valentine's -- oops, just looked it up and seems I've been celebrating the wrong day all these years (we didn't have the Internet back then, OKAY?). Whatever, it was Sat. Feb. 18. Doesn't matter -- I still don't know what day I had my last sip of alcohol on because it wasn't important enough to remember at the time.

I always say, "ugh, if I'd known then that it would be my last drink, I would've filled a shopping cart at the liquor store and holed myself up in a Motel 6 for the weekend." And that pretty much sums up the problem. I'd been drinking since I was 11 and was starting to black out so it was time to nip it in bud. Even though I was only 21 (and hadn't even made it to the nut-flavored liquors yet!), I did my time in AA and it's been nothing but Sprite ever since.

I usually spend the anniversary by myself, reading through my grandfather's notes from his own stint in rehab (he'd been drinking all his life and spent the last 17 years of it sober) but this year would be different...

Jeremy had invited me to dinner at world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse's new restaurant, Adour, at the St. Regis as part of his review for West Palm's Simply the Best magazine. Turns out, they put him in one of their best rooms, the "Tiffany Suite," a massive suite overlooking 5th Ave. and Central Park. Free dinner at a 5-star hotel? Crashing in a $5,000 a night suite twice the size of my apartment? Duh! I threw on my best H&M dress and headed out.


(the view of 5th Ave. and Central Park from one of the "Tiffany Suite's" many windows)

The restaurant's decor is meant to look like you're at the bottom of a champagne bottle, which should've been my first hint. After a less-than-impressive meal (Jeremy's had better halibut from Lean Cuisine), we ordered dessert. While I waited for my tea to steep, I tried a leaf-shaped chocolate that one of 10 people serving us had brought.

My lips immediately pursed as the taste of alcohol filled my mouth. I looked around the room in a panic: how many strokes would I cause among Adour's elite clientèle if I were to spit the chocolate back out? My mind raced for an answer -- wasn't there a scene about this in Bridget Fonda's crappy American take on "La Femme Nakita?" My one remaining brain cell couldn't remember (kids: this is a lesson in binge drinking's long-term effects: do it only if you want to depend on friends and family to remind you of things like your name for the rest of your life).

I swallowed the chocolate and looked at Jeremy who, between sips of his Jameson and gingerale, had wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I explained that I'd been poisoned, ironically, on my 13th anniversary. "Well, as if we didn't need another reason to hate this place AND the French!" he replied.

When the maître d' approached to see how we were enjoying our desserts, I cross-examined him:

"Excuse me, what is in these chocolates?"

"Zees iz zhe passion fruit, zees iz zhe prailine and hazlenut, and zees iz zhe vanilla rum."

"I see. So the ONE chocolate I ate was filled with vanilla rum?"

"Oui."

"Figures. You should inform guests before if anything has alcohol in it. See, as of 5 minutes ago, it was 13 years since I've had any so if I go back up to my room and clean out the mini bar as a result of eating this chocolate, I'm comin' back down after to kick your ass."

(stunned silence) "Madam, we are very sorry..."

"At the very least, you're paying for the mini bar."

I'm sure it was the first time anyone physically threatened Jean Paul after he asked, "and how iz everyzing?" Jeremy nearly choked up a lung laughing.

No, I didn't drink anything as a result -- please, it's going to take A LOT more than a piece of chocolate to knock me off. Even so, I can't help but feel like my precious record has been ruined. Like, I was throwing a no-hitter up until Alain Ducasse squibbed a stupid piece of "chocolat" through the infield grass.

It's a matter of pride when it comes to the record I've touted all these years. How can I say, "I haven't had a drop," now? It's like the Patriots saying "yeah, we won 'em all...yep, all except for that one at the end." Well, at least I'm 4,745-1 (damn you, Ducasse!).


(WTF face outside "a dour" restaurant the next day)