Make-up, skin care, and getting old

If you know me now or have known me a any time over the past, oh say, 38 years, you'll know that I almost never wear make-up. I had to be bullied into it by my mother for my wedding. It's just not my thing. So whenever I do, it is serious cause for comment, as was obvious at the party we went to this weekend. (Does it really make me look all that different? Ok, the red lipstick was out on a limb but other than that, probably not so much.)

Another thing I generally neglect is any sort of skin care regimen. I've spent years knowing that soap in the shower was more than enough time to lavish on my face. But now the beauty industry is playing on the aging thing and given that I thought Matthew Perry (a mere year older than I am) looked old in the movie I took the kids to yesterday, I'd probably have to grudgingly agree that I am aging. So I broke down and bought some skin care stuff. When I remember to use it (and the consistency is rather sketchy, I must admit), the claims it makes just give me the giggles. I mean really.

The eye cream is going to make a visible difference in the black circles under my eyes? Is there really any real measurable difference between the small handbags currently there and the clutch purse they might shrink to, with more diligent application that I am capable of providing?

As for the lotion with sunscreen, well, it's not doing me any good at all since I can't apply it before I go outside for a run or for tennis or anything like that. I've had the sweaty stuff run into my eyes before and let me tell you, I'll choose minor sunburn and premature freckling over agonising blindness any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

And my personal favorite in the trifecta of products guaranteed to give me the skin of a photoshopped model is the deep wrinkle cream. Why not call it spackle and call it a day. I mean seriously. It's not doing one darn thing for my charming laugh lines (ain't euphomisms grand?). Unless of course, they really do mean I'm supposed to spackle it into the gaping chasms before bed, thereby rubbing it into my pillowcase and eventually causing myself a raging case of acne. Yup, mountain ranges of zits would indeed plump up the wrinkles, wouldn't they? With my luck though, they'd cling like mountain goats to the edge of the steep valley, making the wrinkles just that much deeper.

Tell me again why one little pot of this stuff is $40 (keeping in mind that the bare minimum regimen calls for three pots--there's more but I can't begin to imagine what they all are for)? Oh wait, I do know! Once I've finished smoothing very expensive stuff on my unchanging mug, if I have too much left on my fingers, I tend to wipe it off on my cheeks (no, the other ones). I'm going to have the smoothest, softest, most wrinkle-free bottom on the planet. But you're going to have to take my word for it unless the beauty industry would like to use my well-preserved rear in their next set of anti-aging commercials. Good to know some part of me is ready for my close-up, right?!