Poetry in Lotion
Helen of Troy’s beauty was so remarkable that she inspired the men of an entire nation to go to war for her. One poet wrote that hers was “the face that launched a thousand ships.” Big deal. If my wife had been in charge of Helen’s skin care, we’d be talking five thousand ships, easy.
While diligent with her self-care, my wife has great skin to begin with. Probably the closest she’ll ever get to having crow’s feet is at a potluck in Arkansas. Add to that a perfectionism that makes an Olympic gymnast look like an unmotivated slacker, and she has achieved, in her early forties, the flawless face of a ten-year old. No superficial imperfection is too small or too faint to be attacked with a vast arsenal of creams and lotions summoned from around the globe.
Cleansing balms from Korea, moisturizers from Malaysia, facial scrubs from France … my wife’s side of the bathroom counter is an epidermal Epcot Center. And now I am no longer allowed to be merely a casual observer, acknowledging with a complete lack of interest this sprawling international expo of age defiance. The time has come, I’ve been told, for me to plunge in and be transformed, since, in her words, I am “starting to look old.” She says this with the gravity usually reserved for telling an inmate in the electric chair that the Governor didn’t call.
It does me no good to point out to my wife that I am content to surrender to the inevitable vicissitudes of aging; to accept gracefully the foreordained changes in this, the autumn of my life. That is because this is not about me. It is about her. It is about how she wants me to look. And she wants me to look like someone still too young and cool to be using words like “vicissitudes” and “foreordained.”
“All right, here’s your new bedtime routine,” my wife said, selecting some arcane potion in a capped tube from her bewildering stockpile by the sink. “Pay attention, because there are sixteen steps.”
“So, basically,” I said, “I should start my bedtime routine around noon.”
She squeezed a glob of thick cream into my palm. “This is a daily cleansing mask. Rub it all over your face and let it dry. Then wash it off and I’ll tell you what to do next. Don’t talk while it dries.”
“Because it will crack the mask?”
“No, I just don’t want to hear you talk.”
There were, as I’d been warned, a lot of nexts. After the mask came a pore minimizing toner, and let me stop us right there for a second. Has this become a crisis of our times? Are we moments away from having telethons to raise money for people whose pores are too big? I’ve never looked at anyone and thought, “You know what’s holding this person back in life? Over-sized pores.”
Anyway, applied next were golden drops of an anti-aging liquid called retinol that I smeared around my eyes, then something with the distressing name ‘glycolic acid cream’ …
“Wait,” I said. “You want me to put acid on my face?”
“Relax. It’s an acid cream.”
“Yes, that sounds so much better,” I said, rolling my eyes, thereby disturbing the retinol around them, which had to be reapplied.
“Look,” my wife said. “I’m trying to help you not look old. Just trust me!” She rubbed the acid cream onto my face.
“It’s BURNING!” I yelled.
“It’ll do that. It’s an acid cream.”
Multiple layers of mysterious concoctions later, I was done.
“There,” she said. “Now just do that every night.”
“EVERY night?!”
“And then in the morning you’ll need to do a few things.”
“IN THE MOR—” This was crazy. I didn’t have patience for this. “Y’know, thanks for trying, but —-”
“Consistency! That’s your problem! You never stick with anything!” She was trying to furrow her brow but her youthful skin couldn’t work up a crease.
“It’s too much!” I complained. “I’ll never remember all this stuff! Wait! I know! I’ll put it in a rhyme!” I was in a mood now. I danced around. “How about this:
Daily mask, then toner.
No need for a beauty class.
My wife’s FIVE MILLION lotions
Have me smooth as a baby’s —”
“Seriously?” she said. “I’m trying to help you look younger, and you’re being obnoxious!”
“Maybe I’m happy letting nature take its course!” I retorted. “Leave me be! You don’t need to stick your neck out for me!”
“Well, don’t stick your neck out for anyone! It’s starting to look like an elephant’s leg!”
“Oh!” I shot back. “And I suppose you have an amazing solution to hide all these neck wrinkles!”
“Yes! My hands as I strangle you!”
“Look,” I said, calming down. “I’m overwhelmed. I’m used to just washing my face with soap and water and calling it a day.”
“You never wash your face.”
“Well, I’ve always meant to.”
“Please,” she said. “Just give it a try. Your skin will thank you.”
So here I am. Mr. Consistent, weeks later. Giving it the ol’ collagen try. And maybe, just maybe, I’m beginning to see a difference … autumn turning back into summer. Fewer lines, fewer spots, a brighter complexion.
A face that, if I do say so myself, could launch a small dinghy and a couple of canoes, easy.