...and a bag of chips

Last March I splurged on a jar of super-duper-face-cleanser. Yes, I had just turned thirty-five. Yes, I was sensitive about my age. And I had one of those moments standing at my bathroom mirror where I gasped at my wrinkled skin, my blotted complexion. I found retail therapy as near as my local Walgreen's cosmetics counter. I was amazed at the options of age defying this and anti-wrinkle that.

Anyway this super-duper-face-cleanser was rather expensive. I rationed it, proportionally, into super-duper small applications. Used my cheek to wipe the jar clean a couple of times. Then proceeded to use the tap water rinsate complete with loosened crusted globs along the edges. No bones about it: last week there was no more super-duper to eeek out. My wrinkles persevered and the cleanser was ka-put.

Yesterday I went to the same retail therapy spot. I gazed at the cosmetic counter and the accompanying anti-wrinkle pricetags. Ouch. I vaguely remembered last March's sticker shock, but, the edges of the memory had grown dim. Somebody told me that happens when you grow older, your memory fails, but I can't remember who said so...

Since the economy is imploding in an icky, stinky mess we all are watching our spending these days. I couldn't justify the cosmetic cost of anti-wrinkle-super-duper cleanser just to stroke my fragile, and aging, ego.

I opted for Noxema. Yes, Noxema, its cheap. You know, it still comes in that big, blue tub. It still pricks at the skin, a little, with its medication. The smell conjures memories of cleansing teenaged, pimple-y pores.

Under that white masque I remind myself that I wouldn't want to stay young forever. I have no longing for my sixteen year old self. The one who would agonize about everything...wonder why nobody liked me...traversed a mental minefield of adolescent self loathing. I like being thirty-five much more than I ever enjoyed sixteen and seventeen. At thirty-five I laugh more, punish less, and love to greater depths than I did twenty years ago. With that white masque covering my face, I reminded myself that thirty-five isn't bad...in fact its pretty good. Then I washed off the Noxema, caught a glimpse of my wrinkly, blotted visage and amended my thoughts. Slightly.

If that thirty-five year old self-love could throw in flawless skin to boot -- just tie a big bow around it, a bag of Doritos and I'd be set for life. Seriously. Given the depth and breadth of cosmetics that promise fabulous skin I genuinely feel I'm on the road there... all I need now is the bow and the Doritos.
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Currently Reading: Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri