Well, first off, it hides some of the aging face that I have not become accustomed to. I put on a brave smile in that selfie in the tall reeds, but when I look at myself… to be honest, I tend NOT to look at myself. I mean, there is a face in the mirror that might have coffee around its mouth or mud on its cheek, its hair might be unruly or its eyebrows bushy. I deal with those elements but manage to ignore the whole thing as a face. In effect, I don’t see myself. I see parts of a head that may require action.
The mask also means that make-up is impossible. You’d end up with patches where the foundation stuff had worn off and a horrible grubby mask. This saves me at least four minutes a day.
It prevents people seeing if there’s stuff stuck on my teeth (this is a problem for denture wearers because you can’t ‘feel’ it) or bits in my nose. By which I mean snot. I always found it rather annoying when people pointed out either of those defects to me. They thought I’d be grateful, but I wasn’t. I thought they should overcome such minor blemishes and just listen to my interesting conversation.
Another thing I rather like is that if you’re doing exercise, it feels like you’re being water-boarded.
All right, not really. Water-boarding would be exponentially worse. But it’s on the same sort of spectrum of experience.
Now, in my gym, you don’t have to wear a mask, but I always do. I don’t want to pant my potential germs over anyone.
It was a little surprising how noticeable the mask was in the hot weather – sweat probably decreased the breathability of the fabric. But then the weather cooled and I adjusted.
Last time, though, we did an exercise which involved moving forward and punching, then stepping back and punching which culminated in a fairly long and fast sequence. The forward and back thing made it more energetic – I was light on my feet – dancing footwork… floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. Sort of.
Anyway, my heart rate climbed and the old thing was hammering away in the old ribcage. And my breathing accelerated. At the end, I was properly panting. I could feel the panic of being unable to gulp in air and I thought of that book I read, Breath, by James Nestor (it, along with the great fungus one is on the short-list for science books of the year).
I stopped panting. I closed my mouth and inhaled through my nose. The claustrophobic feeling continued. But I deliberately slowed the exhale and felt my body begin to calm. I recovered.
It was… another practice. A way of controlling my reactions. A way of taking charge. It felt good.
All in all, masks? Big thumbs up.
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