I have 17 different kinds of eye cream—OK, maybe only 13, but more are arriving by mail, any day now. Hydroxatone is supposed to take away the dark circles but after about 4 months of spreading it under my eyes and also on my eyelids that don’t even have circles, I can’t see much difference. I already canceled Dermitage which was being sent to me every month, and none of these potions are cheap! I ordered Cindy Crawford’s Meaningful Beauty because Cindy looks so good and supposedly it’s made from some melon found only in the French countryside, but it did nothing. And when I called to send it back, the representative said that it was too late; the trial period had ended, and now I’m stuck with a lot of Meaningful Beauty.
I have Suzanne Sommers’ Thigh Master to keep my chubby thighs in line, and I have 14 quarts of hair gel, but I’m powerless over my hair and my life has become unmanageable. Aging is basically hopeless, though later tonight I’ll be ordering some Nopalina for the inflammation in my knee. It’s made from the Nopal cactus which survives in the arid Arizona desert—3 ounces a day and your soreness is supposed to disappear. I hope it doesn’t taste bad.
Sometimes I ask my husband how I look before we go out. I’m not always dressed up, but sometimes I am and I say,
“Mark, do I look OK?”
“You look great,” he says, his head in the closet getting his coat. He’s halfway out to the car and I yell after him.
“But you didn’t even glance at me! How do you know how I look?”
“You always look great,” he says, fiddling in his glove compartment. Then his eyes meet mine. “You look fine!”
“Fine?” I say. “What does that mean? Don’t butchers say a cut of ham is fine?”
I see my mother aging and now she has dementia, I hate to say. Still, her skin is as soft as tissue paper, the skin of her face especially, but even on her arms and hands. Once during her 90th birthday party a few yrs. ago, she demonstrated once more how she loves to be the star. I had given her these warm and soft white furry gloves and scarf for those cold Buffalo winters. As we all sat on the couch and opened gifts for her, she put each glove on slowly and then the scarf around her neck. It was November so she was probably cold, and as my sisters and brothers read her these sentimental cards, “I love you Mom; you’re the best Mother anyone could ever have. You’re so kind and loving…” she yelled, “Are you done yet?” And all the while, her hands were in the air, in front of her face as she watched them moving in the white gloves, making wave motions for all to see like she was touching the wind, her hands flying free like Marcel Marceau, expressing her joy at still having hands, still being alive.