It Puts the Lotion on its Skin...

...Until it Gets Too Tired and Throws the Lotion in the Trash

All of the skin/mouth/hair crap on my bathroom counter.

“You have really nice skin.”

I was lying on a table staring at the white-tiled hospital ceiling, scrubbed people and metallic equipment orbiting my peripheral vision, when someone said this to me. It was kind of her to try to put me at ease before I slipped off into unconsciousness for my surgery.

“Thanks.”

“What do you do for it?”

“Actually, I stopped putting all the crap on it a few years ago, and it cleared right up.”

It’s true. In my 20s, I washed my face with soap and water, and that was it. But somewhere along the line, I let an MLM convince me I needed a twelve-step program for my skin. Hundreds of dollars bought me cleanser, toner, primer and various foundations — elixirs in pots and tubes in soothing blue colors that promised to stop time and the unbearable horrors of *gasp* wrinkles.

I had day creme and night creme because...I don’t remember what the difference was, honestly. But that’s what you do, so say the experts. This is high-class stuff, by the way, not to be confused with mundane “cream.”

Those cremes ate my time and money and caused pimples to sprout on my over-moisturized cheeks.

I tried tweaking the routine and opting for the “light” versions of the face pastes (as if 90s food marketing had suddenly made its way into skincare) but the pimples and my eye bags stayed. I began to feel like the whole creme-y shebang was not so much a way to indulge myself as another annoying complication of modern life.

Speaking of “light” and indulging myself 1990s style…

Remember this bullshit? It seemed like a great idea until my roommate and I both developed chronic bowel trouble.

It’s complicated.

I tell myself life feels harried now because I have a spouse, a career and a family to take care of, but honestly? I’ve been complaining about life being complicated since I was 13 years old, and it was hard to kiss while wearing braces. The bottom line is, my brain is complicated. I could be living in Bora Bora on the beach, spending half the day gathering coconuts and the other half drinking the rum I’d bought with my coconut money, and I’d still find ways to see it as convoluted.

Why do all these coconuts have to be different sizes? It makes choosing the right wooden pushcart so difficult! Do I want my rum in a daiquiri or with Coke? Oh no, my rope sandals are giving me blisters, but the sand is too hot to go barefoot. Why does everything have to be so haaaard?

Sidebar: The guy who owns Westlake Winebar told me some stories that inspired the above Bora Bora shenanigans. His food is “European-influenced cuisine with a bold, creative touch” and is totally delicious. You should try it. (I get no kickbacks from recommending things, by the way. I’m not that influential.)

Anywho…

Since I’m already complicated enough, I did an experiment. I went off the cacophony of cremes and saved myself 20 minutes of “self-care” time that I reallocated toward more sleep. Instead of washing my face twice a day, then reapplying the oils I’d just washed off in the form of moisturizer, I only washed my face when I’d put makeup or sunscreen on it or was excessively sweaty. The pimples went away, and I saved myself a lot of hassle.

I am not saying that this will work for you.

I mean, it might. It’s worth a try. It’s free. But my skin is not yours, so they probably don’t need the exact same thing. My point is, the mass American marketing machine is always telling us things we need, especially where women and beauty are concerned. They undermine our self-confidence in our ability to take care of ourselves without a shitload of spritzes and salves and special razors with cost-prohibitive refill cartridges.

Here’s a little history on the ad campaigns that taught women that leg and armpit hair were gross so they could sell us razors and depilatory.

I’m not saying you should feel guilty or bad if you have a favorite cream (or creme) or cosmetic that you really love. But how much is too much? When does it morph from pleasure to burden, from luxury to one more thing you feel obligated to fucking do? I doubt the answer is the same for everyone.

Lastly, how much of the “beauty routine” derives from advertising having worn us down, ingrained in us that we need their products to make ourselves worthy? Think about makeup, shaving, hair dye and the effort and money we sink into those products and procedures. Do we do it for ourselves or because we’re told? It’s something that begs for some critical thought.

Sidebar (Endbar?): Here is an archived post called This Is Not What I Expected that inspired this newsletter’s creation.

I look like I have my shit together in this picture; I do not.