Cheese... Instead of Sex

My mother told me that when I was born—and, of course, it’s true—I was the prettiest baby in the maternity ward. And I have paid dearly for that doll-like, milky skin. While swarthier November birth mates tanned to a golden nut-brown à la Ali MacGraw every summer, I burned to a crisp and had to be swaddled in towels soaked in cold, sour milk to calm the inflammation. The sour clung to me, like an institutional smell, though I was grateful for the freckles that finally popped up on my shoulders, my back and the bridge of my nose. Cute!

In junior high school, which was mostly Italian, many girls were already sprouting breasts, which made them the target of boys: cat calls, pointing at the wobbly bits or clumsily trying to touch them. If you were like me, as flat as Saskatoon, boys teased you even more but without the undertow of awe, fear and lust. Already competitive, I vowed to return from summer break with real knockers.

For three months, I drank nothing but buttery whole milk and ate as much cheese (orange cheddar, bumpy cottage and thick, spreadable cream) as I could. I also ate lots and lots of eggs because, I reasoned, after milk, what’s more female than eggs? Yet, at the start of the new school year, my breasts remained muted under my milky skin. I did, however, develop chronic sinus congestion due to my extreme dairy regimen. So I didn’t eat another morsel of cheese for 25 years!

Then, at 38, I met S, who attempted to woo milky-skinned me over many fine meals. Being a Frenchie, S likes his cheese course, so our fridge was soon filled with a wide variety of pungent delights: Le Migneron de Charlevoix, Pied-de-Vent, Grey Owl, Niagara Gold…

True story: One evening, S and I were enjoying a nice supper. We were drinking a good burgundy that always makes me frisky before drowsy. As we cleared the dinner plates, I nudged up against S in a suggestive way. S, clever fellow, caught my drift but seemed oddly tentative. Playfully, I grabbed his shirt lapels and began to pull him toward the staircase. Surprisingly, this was met with some resistance. “Is something wrong?” I asked. Sheepishly, S warbled, “But, there’s cheese...” Indeed, at that very moment, there were several funky cheeses sitting on the kitchen counter, now in the ideal condition for consumption. That night, the cheese course was consummated – the sexual union, not so much.

Dear reader: I did not marry this man. But we do have sex when we run out of brie.

Not to knock cheese – it has many health benefits. But if you really want to make your skin glow, try a lactic-acid skin peel. Derived from sour milk, lactic acid is an alpha hydroxy acid that exfoliates dead skin cells by breaking the bonds that hold those cells together. Less irritating than other acids, such as glycolic, lactic acid helps most skin problems – from sun damage to fine lines.

Harsh peels were all the rage in the 1980s, but they lost ground to lasers and injectables, which are the new darlings of anti-aging treatments. Ask dermatologists what the most underrated treatment is and the majority of them will answer “peels.” They’re not sexy anymore but, used reasonably (e.g., don’t strip off your skin like it’s wallpaper), regular mild peels – done either at the dermatologist’s office or at home – will keep your complexion in good condition.

Dermalogica has a nice range of products, including Skin Renewal Booster and Gentle Cream Exfoliant, that contain a variety of peeling agents, such as lactic acid, salicylic acid and vitamins A and C, to combat photo-aging. Charlotte Gainsbourg is a fan of the line, and she looks about 15 – up-close-and-personal. Other products to try are REN Glycolactic Skin Renewal Peel Mask, Ole Henriksen Enlighten Me Pigment Lightening Serum, Kinara Lactic Acid Hydrating Serum and Kiehl’s Over-Night Biological Peel.

And, should a runny Riopelle interfere with your achieving that post-coital glow, reach for Philosophy’s The Afterglow Oil-Free Smoothing Gel. It’s unisex, and it won’t stain the sheets.