The other I day I read (and I can’t remember where) the average woman spends $100 a month on beauty products.
How did I not get this memo? You’ve all been shopping without me. It’s no wonder I look so pale and forlorn, and here I thought it was the arctic weather and lack of Vitamin D.
I’m roughly $1,100 dollars behind and my husband doesn’t think it’s prudent for me to catch up.
What’s a woman with old lipstick and no more face brightener to do?
I’m like the ugly duckling who needs over a thousand dollars worth of beauty potions and a Clarisonic before she can turn into a swan.
Quack, quack, quack.
Maybe this why my husband is drawn to duck hunting. They remind him of me.
I was looking in the review mirror the other day and I thought I could use a touch of wrinkle cream. How close to the $1,100 dollar mark will a bottle of youth put me these days?
Just a few weeks ago, I was in Target and totally splurged. I blew $22 whole dollars on a giant bottle of Cetaphil face wash and a tub of cream to go with it. The stuff is ugly to look at, but it’s like a good rain on the desert that is my face. Extremely moisturizing and cheap.
Now, suddenly, my splurge seems under-complicated for this modern woman. You know, I will be thirty-nine in another month. Shhhh…don’t tell my kids. My daughter still thinks I might be twenty-nine-ish. She’s catching on though.
I went to the dermatologist the other day. It was my second time in a year. Either that makes me a hypochondriac or spotty, because dermatologists do seem to love spotty people.
Two years ago I developed quite the “rash” of sorts. Blood vessels spontaneously burst just under the skin on my arms. When it’s my lucky day, they burst through my skin and blood drips down my arm. I told my doctor I’ve become the town leper. Between my asthmatic cough and my bloody arms, people yell “UnClean” when I walk down the street.
She laughed and made me an appointment with the dermatologist, but I’m not too far from serious.
So the good doc biopsied one of these bruise-like marks and the dermatology lab in Albany insists it’s sun damage, technically know as Solar Purpura. Basically I’m old and shriveled up.
It’s hard for me wrap my mind around that diagnosis because I haven’t seen the sun since September and it’s not likely my arms will see the light of day until about the end of April, if we’re all lucky and it quits snowing in April.
I’m pretty much the unlucky one-in-a-million, a lot like my friend Missy and the miserable rash she wrote about this week.
It could get worse and it could get better. No one really knows, but it’s likely to get worse. The advice – slather your body in sunscreen post-haste.
I may have given the doctor the hairy-eyeball when he told me to go put sunscreen on my arms.
“Doc, you do realize I just peeled off three layers of thick clothing made from manufactured materials? Lights cannot possibly penetrate one of those layers, much less three.”
The common sense part of my statement didn’t seem to register with him and he most adamantly ordered “SUNSCREEN.”
It all sounds a bit convoluted to me. If you run into me and I sound like I have the Bubonic Plague and look like your favorite zombie, I’m not contagious. I thought about getting a doctor’s note to pin to the back of my coat, so the people in line behind me don’t feel like they need to find another line, but it’s kind of fun to watch the horror in their expressions.
If my face begins bleeding, I’m packing up and moving to Hawaii to spend the rest of my zombified days on the beach enjoying some sunshine.
In the meantime, I may go buy a bottle of sunscreen. That should run me what? $12 dollars?
I’ll be $12 dollars closer to the average woman’s beauty by this time tomorrow. I’m feeling better about myself already!
Now, who wants to go shopping for wrinkle cream with me?