I thought it was time for an “out with the old and in with the new” make-up replacement. I try and stay on top of these things, but when I hauled a lipstick out of my purse the other day and it was Coty, circa 1960, Erotic Red, I decided my make up needed a makeover. I should have just thrown it back in my purse and left well enough alone.
I tried to jump in my economical little run-around Ford Focus and scoot on down to Rite-Aid, but it seems the kids must have stolen it again, because (would you believe it?) they didn’t have any gas in their cars! I finally confiscated a vehicle during someone’s lunch hour and set off on my mission.
Traffic wasn’t too bad. It only took me twelve minutes of white knuckled driving to go the mile to Rite-Aid. A nice young employee admonished me for parking in the handicapped space. I told her I didn’t see a sign. She told me to back up and look down. Sure enough, I ran over a wheelchair. Don’t you just hate that? I thought driving required looking ahead, not down. I commented that possibly someone should put UP a sign directing one to look DOWN.
My recently acquired new attitude helped me slough off my insignificant confrontation with little Miss Pissant, and I was cheerily greeted by a heavily pierced and tattooed teenybopper who insisted on accompanying me to the make-up aisle. He was so helpful that I jokingly asked him if he had any make-up tips for an old broad. To my surprise, he flashed a delightful smile and told me he would be happy to help me. When will I ever learn?
My new found friend moved up and down the aisle as if in search for a particular item. He stopped in front of the myriad of creams and lotions, and carefully selected a tiny jar of age defying, moisturizing, rejuvenating, elasticizing noir crème. He presented it to me in a reverent flourish. I looked at the jar of goop and said “They spelled cream wrong”. He tittered and told me it was his mother’s little secret. I threw it in my basket.
Next we visited the alternative to liquid foundation. He expertly ran a brush over a sample of powdery stuff and artfully twirled the brush over his forearm. It covered half of his snake tattoo nicely. “Jeez”, I said, “I gotta have some of that!” He smiled and placed a second one in my bucket. I wouldn’t have gone that far, but he was having a good time so I let it slide, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
By the time my basket was full we were on a last name basis. I asked him jokingly if he made house calls. Now, I would expect that everyone at one time or another in their lives has inadvertently made a comment that was so bizarre yet innocent that they felt like ripping out their tongue and hanging themselves with it. This was one such innocent comment.
His silence prompted me to turn around. I saw the face of a very vulnerable young man that believed he had just been propositioned by an old lady. There I stood in the local Rite-Aid, next to the eyelash curlers, all sixty plus years of me, asking a teenaged store attendant if he made house calls. Holy crap, this kid probably went to school with my grandniece! Sweet Jesus, I probably went to school with his grandmother!
I shakily managed to exhale the massive pocket of air I had swallowed, before I dropped dead right there in the aisle. I started babbling incoherently, expecting the child protection police to swoop down in helicopters and haul me off. I saw my mug shot on every news outlet in the entire world. I envisioned my friends and neighbors being interviewed by Geraldo, saying how shocked they were because I appeared so normal. My family would be disgraced and run out of town. I was doomed….
And then the strangest thing happened. While I was struggling to come to terms with my destiny, this wonderful young man came over to me, took my arm and said, “Are you OK? Mrs. Canfield?” It suddenly dawned on me that this kid didn’t have a clue why I was so distraught. HA! He either didn’t hear my stupid comment, or it went right over his spiky haired head. There was a God! I told him I was just feeling a little faint, thanked him for his help and ran like hell for checkout.
I jammed my petite little body into my confiscated car as quickly as humanly possible and as I was screaming out of my non-handicapped parking spot, I noticed a flyer stuck on my windshield. It was an advertisement for a new veterinary clinic that read in bold black letters, “We Make House Calls!” I kept one eye in my rear view mirror all the way home.
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