Monday, December 18, 2006
Flake
I buy into it too. I know a smart woman wouldn’t (shouldn’t). But I believe the lines of print and the promises of commercials. Except I get there without the commercial and the products. The promises mean nothing to me because I don’t have live and die by them.
My skin, in its crowning glory is pretty damn great all on its own. No really. You know how there are people who have spent a lot of money for acne prevention and various resurfacing techniques? I’ve never. Beyond the occasional facial and a so-so regime of dial soap, I don’t do very much. But I still have been blessed with good skin. You know those women who are bold enough to go up to a stranger on a street and comment on their hair/shoes/skin? Yeah, I’m the stranger. And yes, I know that if I told the truth, that I usually use just water to rinse off yesterday’s make-up and then apply today’s make-up and every now and then I use my body wash to wash my face, most women in America would declare a jihad against me. Trust me I know, but I didn’t always.
In high school, before I learned to cast such a critical eye, I would be hard pressed to pick the girl with bad skin out of my group. Looking back, and in conversation with old school mates, apparently there were quite a few girls with bad skin. I just didn’t notice. I would moan about a spot on my chin, which was invisible to the naked eye and would be gone the next day. Of course, in retrospect, I can think of a few girls and boys who must have been horribly plagued by the condition of their skin and must have hated me and my bravado something fierce.
I suppose I have my mother to thank for this. My father’s face has the topographic evidence of an acne scene from days gone by. My mother has a smooth plane of perfect skin that has yet to show the evidence of our hedonistic worship of the sun (with baby oil). Oh yes, we are sun worships of the highest order. Like before prom, when it was so very important to me that I be thoroughly deeply tanned I was going to the tanning salon twice a day. My skin never takes on that weirdly orange hue of Hollywood starlets and the more I tanned the more fabulous my pale blue dress looked. Still with the abuse and neglect to which I subjected my face, my skin is still something of a loyal subject and is performing as it always does.
While I have my mother to thank for the skin, I can’t say that I am willing to give any thanks to anyone who has ever come up and commented on my skin. I appreciate that there are women who agonize over their skin and that acne can really affect your outlook. But, sometimes I believe that the only reason that people even think about their skin, and my skin, in terms of commodities, is that someone named Helen or Anna says they should. Proactive has made a statement with Britney and Jessica. Susan Lucci is in on the deal as is Leeza. Compliment my nail polish color or jean because at least I can tell you where you too can get them.
I just wish that I didn’t feel like I need to apologize for having nice skin. I feel a little bit of guilt for something over which I have very little control. I don’t feel bad about having nice hair or full lips, but my skin, it’s like I feel that I need to kind of earn the right. Like I need to put in the time and effort with a cleansing regime and maintenance schedule in order to deserve the state of my skin. I hate that other people feel bad about something that comes naturally. I hate that there is a measure of worth based on something so very shallow.
And just because things always balance out, Bruce has really rough skin. And now, instead of agonizing over my skin, I find myself plotting ways to get Bruce to a facial. Now I get it, I really do.