Okay, I confess. I’ve always been a bit jealous of women who can live without beauty products. Nature babies who can hit the open road on the back of a motorcycle, with all their multipurpose (shampoo, body wash, deodorant AND laundry detergent IN ONE BOTTLE) personal care items stuffed into a saddle bag, with room for clothes, for a two-week trip. These women can go from bed to their inevitable a.m. yoga class in 15 minutes flat, and somehow manage to look great.
My morning routines are a bit more, well…complicated. I’m a product junkie, with a bathroom that friends have been known to raid instead of driving an hour to Nordstrom. There are products that cleanse, exfoliate, lift, moisturize, tone, tighten, soften, smooth (and nary a one that achieves more than one objective, hence the need for multiple products), and otherwise make you younger, sexier, thinner, and able to achieve world peace. Do they all work? Yeah, no. But the guys that invented hope in a jar are really, really good at what they do. If their high-gloss, full-color, wildly expensive ad in More magazine says that cream will erase the ever-creeping-south lines around my eyes, what the hell, I’m in. Yes, I know half these products won’t deliver, but they’re yummy, they smell great, and I love “the process.” It makes me feel female. Having said that, there are days when I wish I could be more granola, less Gabor sister, and just get going in the morning, confident that a Colgate smile was sufficient to get out the door with confidence.
So last weekend, Kenny and I decided to spend the day cruising the valley, enjoying the hot weather in my convertible, maybe stopping for an outdoor lunch somewhere, and ultimately hitting a local winery later in the afternoon for a leisurely glass of Cabernet in the sunshine. Perfect.
I got up an hour before him and began my process. In the shower to shampoo and condition my hair (bleached within an inch of its life once every 2 weeks, conditioner keeps it attached to my head), then exfoliate every square inch of my body with a glove, sending unsuspecting dead skin cells screaming for their lives, and finally ending the shower with an all-over shower lotion in my favorite Chanel fragrance (leaves the bathroom smelling like an expensive french hoo-hoo house for hours afterwards, but it’s fabulous).
Out of the shower to apply matching hoo-hoo-house body lotion over entire body, followed by a layer of no-it’s-never-worked-but-hope-never-dies cellulite cream on my thighs, and light cuticle oil on toes to freshen last week’s pedicure. Then a drop or two Argan oil and some mousse to get my hair UP off my scalp (it’s baby fine, so without mousse, I look like a hairless cat).
The blow dryer is Kenny’s signal to wake up. He stretches and yawns loudly, then stumbles out of bed, takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, runs wet hands through his hair, then tosses on jeans and a t-shirt before standing in my bathroom doorway asking, “So you ready yet?” (a question then repeated at 2-minutes intervals for the next 30 minutes. Yeah, that’s not annoying).
On to the face. Apply Retin-A to reduce years of sun damage, followed by never-miss-a-day-ever 30 SPF so there’s some hope of not looking like a worn Frye boot when I’m 60, and a collagen cream to plump up those fat little skin cells and diffuse (yes, temporarily) the midlife lines. A pea-size rub of decollete cream (I have no idea what this is for, but it’s French, so it must work), and lastly, a quick swipe of lash serum to help grow the lashes that insist on falling out every time I get stressed, leaving me regularly looking like a startled wombat, and we’re done. Spritz on a little fragrance, grab a pair of yoga pants (c’mon, it’s the weekend) and a t-shirt, and I’M READY.
As I grab my purse, Kenny looks at me and says, “Oh, you’re not wearing makeup? I can wait if you want.” Sigh. Back to the bathroom. I bet the nature babies drink all the good wine before we even get out the door.