The Magic Elixir

There isn’t a twelve step program designed for my addiction.  Maybe addiction is a harsh word.  There isn’t a twelve step program for individuals who hear the siren’s call of the beauty products lovingly housed in the department stores, specialty stores and the pharmacies of the world.  That’s a better description.  Each gracefully formed bottle is a Pandora’s Box waiting to release physical beauty to the women of the world.  My husband, Clueless, refers to it as my “department store issue,” Even suggesting that my paycheck be directly deposited into the Macy’s cash register. 

Driving past a mall, I hear the bottles in the cosmetic department sweetly sing, “buy me, buy me.”  Heart racing, palms sweating, and an invisible rope pulling, the resistance is gone.  Lovingly, I stroke the boxes, reading the exquisite prose, “Super Rescue Antioxidant Right Moisturizer,” Dior Ultimate Wrinkle Correct Crème.”  Irresistible, these bottles contain the brass ring to a younger, more youthful appearance.

Transforming elixirs will make me tall, thin and blond.  Irrational?  Maybe.  I prefer to think of it as faith.  Recently, I tested a new Dead Sea mud product.  According to the box, it erases years from your face, reduce cellulite and increases your IQ by 10 points.  I heated it to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, applied generously and hoped the treatment time of three hours would pass quickly.  It is impossible to sit naked, covered with mud for three hours.  So I threw on my skuzzy old bathrobe and went to the kitchen to cook dinner. Half way through the treatment, my son walked in with three of his former best friends.  Jaws agape, they bolted out the back door.  My son is begging to move to a new school district. 

Clueless is skeptical of everything relating to face creams, masks, peels, buffers, and most of all Retin A.  Explaining that these will make my face as smooth as a baby’s butt elicits his usual response, “with or without diaper rash?” 

I know that he is just afraid of me looking too young. It will emphasize his baldness and belly that my children refer to as “The Twins.”  What really bugs me is his irrational belief that I genetically passed this condition to my daughter.  “Impossible,” I said.

My mother didn’t pass it to me.  She’s a shoe person.  My daughter only owns two small bottles; both prescribed for the killer acne she inherited from her dad.  Now you tell me who has the bad genes? 

My therapist encouraged me when I went cold turkey a few years ago.  I did pretty well until the Clinque free gift event.  Clueless suggested hypnotism and the nice lady at the book store told me that no one has written a self help book for face cream abusers.  Even so, I think that I am ready to try again.  I’ve taken up yoga and feeling strong.  I think I can resist the urge now.  Wish me luck; I’m off to buy a new tube of lipstick.  They have the most delicious names.