Recently we traveled to Naples, Florida for spring break. My parents, who live in Florida year-round, were gracious to let us stay with them, eat all their food, and track sand and toss beach towels throughout their house for five days.
One morning we visited an outlet mall, and I separated from my family to explore a few stores at my own pace. You know how outlet malls strategically place kiosks in the walkways? Typically, I'm skilled at passing by without engaging or making eye contact, and therefore, not getting sucked into sales pitches I'll inevitably need to say "no" to. But somehow, on this particularly sunny Naples day, I got sucked in.
The kiosk was selling eye cream that (to my knowledge) was made of ancient Dead Sea salts, fairy dust, raw kelp, gold powder, peptides, ceramides, and essence of unicorn horn. The man who applied it to my exhausted under-eye area was an especially handsome Italian in his mid-twenties. Given his job selling eye cream to middle-aged women (no subtlety in that business approach), he was slightly flirtatious, and to my horror, I intended to respond to a question in a friendly manner, but instead offered a reply that could have been construed as flirting right back.
Without question, the eye cream was amazing. He handed me a mirror so I could view my reflection, and half of my face belonged to someone who was a decade younger and no longer tired. Somehow, miraculously, the skin beneath my eye was bright, taught, smooth, supple, and a host of other adjectives I don't typically use when describing my under-eye area.
The cream was $399. He whispered conspiratorially that he could offer me a special price of $299, and then broke down the cost into a monthly expense (under $13 per month!) if I used the bottle for two years, which was how long he claimed it would last, although, to me, this seemed impossible for such a small bottle.
Regardless, my eye looked amazing, and my family was nowhere to be found, and the Naples sun was so sunny and the Gulf breeze was so breezy, that I let the handsome young Italian apply the cream to my other eye. I immediately felt younger and confident, but I knew something that he didn't: namely, while I might be many things, I am not a splurger.
To be sure I wanted the the eye cream, but I managed to awkwardly extract myself from his charming, yet exorbitantly priced, sales pitch. A half hour later when I reconnected with my family, Joel instantly commented that my eyes looked good. (By way of context, despite his ample wonderful qualities, he once didn't notice for over a week that I had gotten a haircut that lopped off seven inches.) In the off chance that you were wondering, yes, this compliment did, indeed, make me curious about how "less good" my eyes typically look to have him perceive the difference so quickly.
I told you all of that so I can now say this: Florida does strange things to me.
Perhaps my musings about the eye cream were accentuated because my birthday fell during spring break, and I might have subconsciously been contemplating aging. Perhaps it was because I reread my two favorite romance novels during the trip, and I might have been emotionally amped up on period-piece courtships. Perhaps it was the stark change in my clothing choices, including the sudden reintroduction of beachwear. (Is the tee shirt and athletic shorts I pulled over my swimsuit really
the look I'm going for? Could I be a woman who wears a cover up? A flowy
sarong? A wide brimmed hat instead of my ball cap? Pennsylvania
clothing choices do not coalesce with Naples realities.)
Or perhaps it was because my oldest is nearly 17 years old, and by virtue of being an active nearly 17-year-old, she falls out of bed with the smooth skin and strong body that I didn't even know I had when I was
nearing 17 myself. That eye cream merely teased me with the promise
of having the skin she currently possesses.
Regardless of the contributing factors, spring break stirred within me a desire to capture remnants of my youthfulness before it utterly fades. I try not to lament the passage of things, the daily movement of these vanishing days. But is it too much to ask for someone to maybe take a few pictures of me, being gentle with my underlying vanities and insecurities, while also exhibiting skill and patience to find the most attractive backgrounds and flattering camera angles? (This, I know, cannot be done by a member of my family who, depending on age, will either point and click once, take a burst shot of a hundred exactly identical crooked photos, or flip the phone's direction and fill my camera roll with dozens of goofy close-up selfies.)
My generation preceded themed weddings inspired by Pintrest and elaborate gender reveal baby showers, and I don't regret that I didn't experience these things. But, if I'm entirely honest with myself, I do envy the younger generations' penchants for authentic photo shoots. They have senior pictures that aren't posed in front of blue vinyl pull-down drapes, wedding albums that reflect personalities, and happy-sigh-inducing black and white photos of newborns in their arms.
This Florida trip made me realize that I'd like to have a few pictures where — oh, I don't know — I look the absolute best I've ever looked, while simultaneously not looking like I'm trying real hard to achieve it.
It's quite simple, really.
Of course, the minutia of daily life and routine has a way of snuffing these desires out. Since I've returned from Florida, I've resorted to the comfortable, yet mundane, rhythms of working, parenting, meal-planning, dishwasher-emptying, clothes-folding, and couch-crashing at the end of a day. I'm no longer actively contemplating whether I could pull off a sarong. I suspect it's safe to assume that very few of us live glamorous lives.
But that week away from home in Florida? And the themes of romance novels, and the hint of Gulf breeze blowing through my hair, and the handsome Italian who introduced me to that magic potion of an eye cream that restored my youth, even if just for an afternoon? Well, it teases me, flirting with my sensibilities, and makes me believe that life, occasionally, really is a little more exciting with a hint of glamor or an indulgence in beauty.
To be certain, I don't lament aging. Middle-age has brought with it too many wonderfully hard-earned life lessons and valuable skills to bemoan that it's also made its mark on my appearance.
I'm content. I really am. But apparently, I also wouldn't mind owning a $399 eye cream.
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