PETERSEN: Vermont Chapter

I noticed some discoloration around the bones of my eyes a couple months ago.  At first I thought I had made a terrible cosmetic mistake and tried to wash it off.  When washing didn’t work I inspected a little more closely only to find that the discoloration was the result of permanent sun damage.  I FELT OLD.  The very fact that I had become a victim of “sun damage” labeled me in a new tier of maturity.  I began a string of introspection regarding my personal care, repremanding myself for those selfish summers of intentional sun tanning.  Perhaps it was not helpful that I am in my final trimester of pregnancy and experiencing moments of frumpy unattractiveness regularly, nonetheless, I came down quite hard on myself.  I regaled the day, a couple years ago, when Chase indulged me with the gift of my first facial at a local spa.  I remember walking out of the hypnotically peaceful establishment feeling that my glowing skin could make the grass grow and the birds sing.  Every day I washed my face with the recommended product and followed my skin care regime like it was a guilty pleasure.  I eventually ran out of magical serum and creams; the reality of finances and practicality came into clear view. 

Now I recall that blissful day of self pampering more accurately.  Upon inspection of my skin, the esthetician providing me with my enzyme peel gasped, “Your skin is SO dry!  What do you wash with?”  My answer came with a dermatologists recommendation.  The woman continued preparing elixirs, “Do you ever use a scrub?” she asked.  The aeromatherapy and Native American flute music were placing me in a hypnotic trans, “Occasionally I’ll use an apricot scrub,” I mumbled through relaxing paralyzed lips.  The esthetists’ reaction was beyond anything I’d have anticipated.  Through an exaggerated drawn in breath she sternly spoke, “NEVER use apricot scrub.  THROW IT AWAY!  Your skin is dry and damaged in [this or that] region and apricot scrub will only tear it up worse than it is already.”  The scolding tone contradicted the atmosphere in which she was working. I was so relaxed I couldn’t seem to move my body. . . or mind it seems, because my response was a quiet careless burble, “Mmm-hmm.  Okay.”   As a result the woman dismissed whatever concoction she was mixing and started over; providing me with the “Marine Lifting Facial” instead, in an effort to hydrate my skin and reduce wrinkles. 

 As I reflected upon this moment of mediocrity I recalled a scene in the movie The Truth About Cats and Dogs in which the down-to-earth main character (a veterinarian) accompanies her high maintenance friend to a department store cosmetic counter.  When the saleswoman turns to the main character to ask what her skin care regime is and is given a comically witty response, the saleswoman curtly places a large magnifying mirror in front of the character’s face.  As the veterinarian stares tragically at her reflection the cosmetic saleswoman says, “Do you see how dry and discolored you are?  Do you see the irreversible sun damage? You haven’t been taking care of your skin, and it’s ONLY going to get worse.”  This was the scene I played over and over in my mind.  I suppose the esthetist knew several years ago what I had just observed for myself in the mirror a few months ago.  Now I sit in introspection and dream of the day we’re rich enough for lasers to fix my teenaged stupidity.