What do you give your average stay-at-home-romance-writing mom for Christmas? A gift certificate to a ritzy beauty spa for a day of self-indulgence, of course. And when does your average, non-ritzy, stay-at-home-romance-writing mom take advantage of this day of pampered elegance? Not until her worried spouse says, "Honey, do you remember that spa gift certificate I gave you for Christmas? Well, it has an expiration date, you know." Of course, your average stay-at-home-romance-writing mom is also a penny-pinching, tight-fisted,Scotch-blooded, never-throw-away-a-coupon type of person who would never let a gift certificate to anywhere go wasted without at least attempting to use it...
Recently, I found myself lying naked under a sheet in a semi-darkened room, New Age meditative music playing softly in the background, while strange hands kneaded my every joint and muscle. No, it wasn't a doctor's office or a porno film set. I was under the influence of a very skilled Swedish massage expert named Lana, a young lady young enough to be my daughter in all likelihood. The massage was part of my spa gift certificate package, and I really looked forward to it. Lana knew exactly what pressure points to push on my mushy muscled frame, and she felt free to push and prod them all. I never knew I was actually 5' 7"--thanks for getting that crick out of my neck, Lana!
Next came the "facial." The facial is a relaxing activity whereas you let a nice woman named Rita with a unrecognizable European accent stick all kind of pleasant scented cleansers and lotions all over your face while you fall asleep in a nice "hot seat" of a chair.(No kidding. It had an electric pad in it somewhere, keeping you at a nice toasty temp until you're half-baked or finished with your facial, whichever comes first.) Rita commented on my nice skin pores and said I had your traditional "oily T-zone" problems. I figured that meant I occasionally get a pimple or two on my forehead. I just love "jargon," though, don't you?
Peeking out from under a damp, warm eye cloth, I tried to uncover some of the facialist's face cleansing secrets. And it was then I saw it on the top shelf of her burgeoning shelf of cosmetic products, a familiar blue and yellow metal aerosol container marked "WD-40."
Wow. And I wondered what happened to the crick in my neck...
Now, the real reason I decided to finally avail myself of my "free" facial and spa-what not is simple. The family and I were heading north at the end of the week to attend my twentieth high school reunion. I can guess what you're thinking at this point: "She was worried about her aging appearance and wanted to look her best to impress her former classmates." Guilty as charged.
In my defense, however, I did NOT resort to dying my hair. I'm one of those fortunate souls whose hair color actually looks very similar to what it did back in my teens--a lovely shade of dishwater blond. So how can you tell if a dishwater blond has white hair on her head when her hair is multi-colored to begin with? These days I have just a few more "platinum" strands on my head than ashtray brown. Who needs to "touch up" a few hairs that blend in so well naturally?
Wrinkles? I've done pretty good on that score, too. Remember, the more you have under your flesh, the less it sags. My having high cheekbones, courtesy of a distant Blackfoot ancestor, helps, but probably the extra twenty pounds I'm carrying doesn't hurt, either.
The most interesting detail I noticed about my former classmates was how the aging process affects males and females differently. The women all look exactly the same as they had the last time I laid eyes on them in high school. The same--drop dead gorgeous, of course. Sure, a few admitted to being fans of Miss Clairol, but essentially they were the same height, build and round about the same weight, give or take a pregnancy.
The guys were a whole other story. Hair? I had a hard time recognizing many of my former male classmates because of their migrating hairlines and plentiful facial hair growth. So many had grown beards and mustaches a la the "Mark MacGwire goatee" look that I barely recognized some of them. It was odd to think that the last time I saw these gents, most of them probably didn't have enough peach fuzz on their chins to even bother to own a razor! Of course, nowadays they do, but they've seem to have forgotten how to use it.
Either way, my husband was mighty jealous. He said I was lucky to have graduated with such a "good-looking group of men." Men? We were in high school,for pity's sake. They were just your average guys back then. If I had known how handsome they were going to turn out after twenty years, I might have even considered dating a few of them. But, then again, probably not. I grew up with them, knew all their siblings and friends--and would I really have wanted to date someone who considered "me" as their friend? Hmmm...)
The most frequent compliment I received about my looks was how I hadn't "changed a bit" after all this time--I looked just like my senior photo.
Ugh. I guess I could take that comment of two ways: Either I look like I'm eighteen years old still, or I look like I'm still suffering from a bad hair day after twenty years.
I'll opt for the youthful appearance. "What's your secret?" I was asked. "Why,I'll tell you," I replied. "WD-40 does wonder for your pores." Copyright © 2001, Cindy Appel. All Rights Reserved
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