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Wednesday, August 9, 2002 So I was thinking that one of the ways I could be nice to myself would be through the periodic liberal application of scented lotion to my person. (Not in a freaky way, though, okay? Just in a normal, "here I am eradicating my dry skin with a luxurious product that smells nice, because I care about myself" sort of way.) I even thought of the ten-dollar Victoria's Secret lotion that someone bought me for Christmas three years ago, and how much I liked that lotion. I even almost considered buying that very same lotion. I don't find myself in a Victoria's Secret very often, though, so the idea eventually evaporated from my mind. Today I went to the mall with my kids and my cousin Randy, who (as I told y'all before) is often mistaken for my spouse by strangers working in retail establishments. We wandered around the mall, buying items from toy stores, video game stores, electronics stores, and other places of boyish interest, until we reached The Body Shop. My sharp magpie eye caught several 50%-off signs. "C'mon, y'all," I said. While my children molested the pyramids of many-colored glycerin soaps and Randy pretended to read ingredient labels while scoping out young women in the mallway, I methodically sniffed every tester tin of Body Butter in the store. Even then, I knew that I wouldn't buy anything. It wasn't in my budget. I eventually meandered near the register, where I fingered bottles of essential oils. They always fascinate me, and I never buy them. I have one bottle of carnation oil that I've carried through various habitats for the past 3 or 5 years. Although I love the smell of it more than anything in recent memory, I don't even know what to do with the stuff. I would make cologne out of it if I could, but apparently it's easier just to keep the bottle in my drawer and take a hit off it every once in a while. So I'm standing there minding my own lack of affairs when the chick in charge of the store that day says, "Have you ever tried our massage products?" Something makes me say, "I don't have anyone to try them with." Maybe I thought bitter personal information would ward off a sales pitch? Too seasoned for such resistance, she glances towards my cousin and says, "Isn't that your hubby?" "My cousin," I say. She smoothly rejoins, "I don't have anyone, either. I don't even like men." My eyebrow rises of its own volition as I turn to look at her for the first time. She's not bad-looking. But I don't think she's hitting on me. I think she's taking in my newly cropped hair and doing test-marketing. She's bi-sales-ual. She can pitch it either way. I say something silly like, "Yeah. How can you not hate men?" She laughs, finally pins me for a bitter divorcee, and replies, "Yeah, they're only good for a few things." Never one to shy away from inappropriately intimate conversations with strangers, I say, "Yeah, and most of those things you can do for yourself, anyway." Sharing my lack of inhibition and tact, she says, "You sure can. Electronics have come a long way." Too bad she wasn't hitting on me. She's a fiesty little droid, isn't she? Ice broken, the hard sell begins. Our shared frustration with the less-fair sex has segued into the suggestion that one could use Body Shop massage products on oneself. One could also, upon finding oneself a busy single mother of three, set aside 20 post-shower seconds per day to spritz on a little Body Shop dry-oil lotion spray. One would be surprised at how soothing aromatherapy can be. Did one know that lavender is said to calm the savage beasts otherwise known as little boys? Next thing I know, a twelve-dollar terracotta "warmer" is in my hands. With the additional purchase of a four-dollar box of tea lights, I can finally realize my dream of having something to do with my bottle of carnation oil! It's not in my budget, though. It's just not in my budget. Another woman walks up and distracts the saleschick. I quickly put down the warmer but, before I can get away, my eye is caught by the terracotta lamp ring. I read the box. All I have to do is put some oil on the ring and then put the ring on a lightbulb. I already have a lightbulb! It's in a lamp and everything! The terracotta lamp ring is only five dollars! I can take it out of the grocery money! My house will smell like carnations! I'll do it for myself! I can care about myself! I can do a good thing for myself, overcoming my self-esteem issues and going on to become the success I was always meant to be! Before anything else could happen, I had the
thought that always intrudes -- that always stops me in my tracks and foils all
my plans: While the saleschick's back was turned, I silently herded Randy and the kids out of The Body Shop. Then we went to Suncoast, where I bought myself a Speed Racer poster for $9. Then we went to a cell-phone-accessory kiosk, where I scored a pimpingly ridiculous cover for my Nokia, with a leopard's face on the back, for five freaking dollars. Some things you can get cheaper at Wal-Mart, and some things you can only buy at the mall in a frenzied attempt to pacify your whining inner child. I know Speed Racer won't massage me with scented oils at night. That's okay, though. I spend my nights doing freelance and reading to my kids. Before I typed this entry, I spent 20 seconds quickly rubbing Johnson's Baby Lotion on my legs, which are a bit scabby because I saved a dollar buying blunt generic razors instead of Bics. I admit it -- I shave my legs at night because it feels good between the sheets. First that, then the decadence with the lotion. If I'm not here tomorrow, it's because my selfish flesh is roasting in hell. |