In the Closet No One Can Hear You Scream
I first noticed the change when I slid out of the bathroom stall at my favorite Italian restaurant and caught sight of my reflection in the darkened mirror over the sink. The room was so dimly lit my face barely registered in the glass. It was at that moment I realized that I was no longer pretty, I was now blurry-pretty.
Blurry-pretty, as in only attractive when seen from a speeding car, in a pitch-black theater or after three martinis. In those situations, I’m downright gorgeous. Easy enough, I’d just need to socialize in the dark with nearsighted alcoholics. But that doesn’t fit the suburban three kids-one dog-minivan life I’ve built for myself.
This blurry thing didn’t happen overnight; it was gradual. It probably started when I turned 50. After the big 5–0 you begin to notice a wrinkle or two, or maybe a rogue chin hair, until one morning you drag your ass out of bed, stagger to the bathroom mirror to find Shrek staring back at you. Dark days indeed.
When I was a kid in the 1960’s anyone over the age of 50 seemed downright ancient. If you were 50, you wore housecoats and hairnets. You had a soft marshmallowy body weighted down by gravity and a steady diet of bacon fat.
My own German grandmother kept a closet full of roomy housecoats and a big can of bacon fat under her kitchen sink, next to the Windex. Back then no one worried about a giant Petri dish of oozing sick under the sink. Health-shmealth!
Admittedly 50 doesn’t look like what it used to. Between modern medicine, affordable surgical procedures, improved diet and exercise, 50 really is the new 30.
Unfortunately, my relationship with the gym has grown tenuous, and the idea of a “healthy lifestyle” is more of a vague concept. Kind of like democracy is for Donald Trump. There’s a general awareness of it, but no real desire for implementation.
I’m not a total lost cause. I can still pull off heels and a flirty skirt if I pour myself into some super-strength Spanx. But that’s a magic act I perform in the privacy of my closet. In the closet, no one can hear you scream.
Maybe my body image is slightly screwed up — okay, very screwed up. In my quest for perfection, I’ve tried fat-flushing juice cleanses, starvation diets and will jump on any product promising to slim and tone my aging body.
In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit last year I broke down and bought a jar of cellulite cream called Fat Girl Slim by Bliss Cosmetics. Not exactly a self-esteem booster. Perhaps the name was meant to be ironic, but it felt more like an accusation or an admonishment.
The reviews of Fat girl Slim were impressive, however, so despite the insulting label I decided to try it. Wearing my darkest sunglasses, I slunk to the check stand at my local Ulta Beauty store and slid the product discreetly across the counter. Much to my dismay, the checker couldn’t find the price and called for help.
Drawing the attention of every customer in the store, the checker thrust the jar into the air and bellowed, “Does anyone know how to ring up this FAT GIRL SLIM CELLULITE CREAM?” Eventually, the store manager came to the rescue, but my humiliation was far from over.
After examining the product, the manager looked me over barely containing her judgment and asked if I’d ever used it before.
What was this, a pharmacy? Did I need a prescription for this stuff?
Frankly, I didn’t think it was any of her business. Maybe I was buying the product for a friend. A beastly, bulbous, cellulite-riddled friend who was too busy stuffing her face with Moon Pies to buy her own jar of fat-blaster cream.
Instead of saying any of that I mutely shook my head.
In a voice loud enough to be heard by dogs in the next county, the store manager launched into a lengthy tutorial describing in excruciating detail how to use the cream and “cellulite-busting application paddle” to break up the ugly fat on my thighs.
Oh please, could you use the word CELLULITE more?
“Okay, okay!” I begged. “Please just ring it up!” I wanted to melt into the floor. I could feel the eyes of every customer in that store on my back as I grabbed my purchase and made a beeline for the door.
Once at home I hid the fat cream in my closet for a week before working up the nerve to use it. I mean seriously, who wants to use a product called Fat Girl? Did the good folks at Bliss Cosmetics want to shame their customers? I can’t be alone in this.
As swimsuit season rapidly approached, I set aside my righteous indignation and broke out the fat cream. I banished my husband from our bathroom during the twice-daily application ritual. I didn’t need a witness to my humiliation. Besides every marriage needs a little mystery. Right?
I slathered and scrubbed my body religiously, day and night, and began to see results after several weeks of paddling myself raw. Or maybe my thighs just looked different because I’d scraped off the top five layers of skin. I couldn’t be sure.
Either way, I clung to the hope that it all would be worth the expense, humiliation (and possible skin-grafting) when I hit the beach that summer with smooth, cellulite-free thighs. We all have our little dreams. My therapist calls these delusions. Tomato — tomahto.
Recently I went online to research Bliss Cosmetics and was pleased to discover that they’d introduced a new product called Fab Girl Slim. Someone in the marketing department at Bliss deserves a fat (sorry) raise for that one. After all, life is hard enough without being judged by your skin cream!
Fat, fit or fab, I won’t be buying any more magic creams or torturous application paddles. I’m okay with my 55-year-old legs and my blurry-pretty face. I’ll just stock up on candles and vodka. What else is a blurry girl to do?
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