I Got A Facial

It’s no secret that I’m easy prey to all the latest fads for beating back the rapidly turning pages on life’s calendar. I wish I had the confidence of the beautiful Jamie Lee Curtis and Helen Mirren who gracefully embrace the passing of time, but I come from the land of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Here, we embrace each other with a critical eye and our greetings, instead of “How are you?” begin with “You look great!”

I was an early admirer of Jack LaLanne, following him on television as I touched my toes and did jumping jacks. I was a devotee of Jane Fonda, donning my shiny spandex leotards and sweating to her high-paced aerobics workouts on VHS. I’ve powerwalked; I’ve kept pace with Denise Austin through the decades; I’ve Jazzercized; I’ve joined gyms and quit gyms; I’ve taken step classes and spin classes and cardio funk classes and yoga classes and Zumba classes. I bought Jillian Michaels’ Body Revolution and worked myself into a (short-lived) size 4. I’ve fought gravity every inch of the way with ab crunches and pumping iron.

Alas, the face and body cream industry has also benefited from my insecurities…and my gullibility. Hydrate and moisturize, rinse and repeat. By this age, I’ve spent enough money on slathering products for my face and neck that my husband and I could have retired years ago. I’ve needed the age-appropriate cleansers, toners, eye creams, daytime moisturizers, nighttime moisturizers, acne treatments for “mature” skin (something’s wrong with that reality). Twelve years ago, I was a chaperone for my daughter’s dance group on a trip to Kentucky. Another little girl stayed with us in our hotel room and marveled at my case filled with lotions and potions – “more than Harry Potter has!” – she exclaimed. That was a proud moment for me.

Drunk Elephant

My insomnia has permitted me to remain updated on trends in exfoliants, glycolic acid, and retinol as the late-night infomercials readily educate me. I’ve explored Botox and fillers, but the idea of injecting foreign substances into my face freaks me out. I’ve bought home microdermabrasion kits and ultrasound devices that are supposed to cause my sagging facial muscles to contract, thereby restoring them to my early twenties’ firmness. How about DNA-based skincare? Should I explore the gluten-free products? Kim Kardashian informed me that a vampire facial is what I want. How about a gold facial because, I mean really, I haven’t wasted enough money, yet? Fermentation? Radiofrequency? Mesotherapy? Do I need these?

With the slackening jawline and turkey jiggly thing developing under my chin, I’ve pondered a partial facelift. But, when does it stop? I’ve heard I could become addicted to surgery. Would my nipped and tucked face look fresh and youthful, or just nipped and tucked on my wrinkly, rickety body sitting in the poor house beside my long-suffering husband?

Just as I resigned myself to a lifetime of demanding that candid pictures of me were never posted on social media…just as I learned to stop gasping in horror when my phone camera accidentally swiveled to selfie mode, accentuating the multitude of chins and parenthesis-shaped lines around my mouth, Groupon emailed me the answer. The newest and the latest. A non-surgical approach guaranteed to give me the same results as a facelift. As I said…gullible.

And, to add excitement to the thrill, I could also get liposuction results with a non-surgical body procedure. Why wouldn’t I want to make my love handles disappear? Smooth the bulge under my belly button? These two miracle treatments, for face and body, were on special for about $150. What a bargain! I signed right up.

I kissed my husband goodbye the morning of my appointment, surreptitiously making sure he had a good look at my face and figure before I left. I didn’t tell him of my big plans so I could surprise him when I got home. I drove the 45 minutes to the elite spa that offered the Groupon deal and nervously walked into the foyer. I was greeted by a woman who seemed unaware of who I was and why I was there. After a quick conversation, she became animated. Later it would become clear to me that her brief assessment led her to think of me as an easy target.

Communication was not Callie’s strong suit. She was pleasant enough but didn’t understand with whom she was dealing. I needed to know exactly what she was doing. I needed to know how it was going to feel before she ever lay an instrument on me. I needed to know that her lotions and potions were sterile and that the equipment was cleaned after each client. I kept asking for information, and she kept giving me whispered abbreviated answers. I’m not a spa expert so I may not have been aware of some protocol demanding silence. Was I supposed to be quiet or just not question the specialist?

Plus, Callie should have warned me – really, she should have – before she assaulted me with the EXIMIA machine. I’d read that this device employs not one, but two state-of-the-art solutions to my cellulite accumulation. I did my research. While I’m not particularly scientific-minded, I understood the concept of lift and suck. This miraculous Italian contraption would do exactly that to my cellulite in a simple, painless, easy session. After all, I’d paid $150 to be made over in just one visit. Once Callie had applied the lotions needed for the machine to glide over me, a loud banging and sizzling noise startled me into a near panic. She needed two hands to control the gadget as it proceeded to do what I can only describe as trying to eat me alive. It had powerful jaws that chomped and crunched across my abdomen and hips. All while paralyzing me with its commotion.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?” I managed to choke out between gasps for air.

“Yes, yes!” Callie told me with a bright tone. “It’s doing its job. You’ll see a difference in just one day.”

Oh. I forgot to mention Callie insisted on taking photos of me with my phone, full body and close-up of the face, before starting any of these treatments. She wanted to celebrate with me the results when comparing before/after pictures. You already know how I feel about pictures of myself so you can imagine how excited I was by this little exercise.

When she finally released me from the table, Callie took that after-picture but saucily informed me that I couldn’t look until after she’d worked on my face. She wanted to save it for the Big Reveal. Off we went to the facial room which had a smaller version of the body machine I’d just escaped. I knew what to expect this time, though, so braced myself for having my face eaten. Maybe the pressure was less; maybe I was better prepared. As it turned out, I had to control my laughter because that machine tickled as its little mouth gently chewed up and down my cheeks.

Callie was shocked that, at my advanced age, I’d never had a facial. She kept asking me, “Really? Never?” as if that would change history. It was a rather pleasant step-by-step process of cleaning my face, applying lotions and potions, wiping off the lotions and potions, the EXIMIA device nibbling on my face, massaging away the tension, and on. I was relaxed, thinking this was definitely worth my Groupon special rate when Callie pulled out a new device. She applied a thin liquid to my face and began swirling a three-pronged electric current wand all over, from my neck to my jowls, up my cheeks to my forehead.

“I’ll turn it up as high as you can tolerate it,” she told me. “The higher the setting, the better the results.”

“Okay,” I said. I was game. I wanted to see the results. She’d taken the before-pictures, after all, and I wanted to bask in the glow of my freshly treated skin in the after-pictures.

“Just a tingle,” Callie assured me. “You’ll feel a tingle.”

I felt a tingle. Not bad. I couldn’t wait to see the toned muscles, the youthful radiance. As the liquid on my face was absorbed and swept away with Callie’s motions, the tingling grew stronger. Suddenly, it felt as if someone had applied a live wire directly to my face, and my arms and legs began to convulse.

“Stop! It’s burning!” I said.

“Shhh! Not burning. Tingling,” she assured me.

“Burning!” I yelled, swiping the torture device away from me.

“Hm.” Callie eyed me skeptically. “Maybe I didn’t give you enough lotion.”

“Ya think?” I was sitting upright by then, fingering the skin on my forehead, feeling for blisters. Clicking her tongue at me, she lay me back down and applied a hydrating collagen mask to my face.

collagen mask
Callie took those after-pictures. I saw no difference. Not on my stubborn love handles, not around my jawline. My online research had promised me that I’d see a noticeable improvement after one treatment. But Callie informed me that I needed at least six treatments of each to see real results. At full price, I was looking at close to $2600.

“I’ll give you the package rate,” Callie whispered conspiratorially. “You’ll get 20% off.”

Callie may have fancied herself a good saleswoman, but I’d show her that I wasn’t someone to be trifled with. While I had not had the best experience with my first body treatment and facial, a 20% off hook gave me pause. I scratched the body treatments from her proposal and arranged a dubious look on my face as I eyeballed the remainder. She countered with an additional 5% off a package of six facials. I hedged and mulled. Our eyes met, each sizing up the other. I told her that if she would trim another 5% off the facials, I’d do it. She agreed, and I wrote her a big fat check. She grinned as I walked out, a hint of smugness on her lips, but I assured myself that, while I may be gullible, I’d shown her that I’m no sucker.

* * * * *

The Go-To Gal

Guest post

laundry

The requests began to sound all too familiar.

“Mom, I need my (insert item here) washed, and I don’t have time to throw in a load, can you throw it in?”

Or, “I don’t have time to stop at the cleaners before work, can you grab my dry cleaning?”

Or, “Mommy, I don’t have time to drive to UPS, and it has to be mailed today, can you drop it for me?”

Why is it when young adult children return home for a period of time from college or their independent lives, that they fall into the pattern of having Mom do their bidding?

I am reflecting on this as I get ready for another re-entry. Winter is coming and that means the long holiday break is imminent. Don’t get me wrong. I love to have my family under one roof, but I am also dreading the backslide — the people we become when we get back into familiar roles.

A few years ago, when I first became an empty-nester, I remembered that I could not wait to have my kids home to “mom” them again. I made favorite dinners and cleaned their rooms. I couldn’t break the habit of over-loving.

The second time I welcomed my brood home, something had changed. I had changed. I gained a sort of acceptance about the way my life without children had progressed. I reinvented my career and began freelance writing from home. It had always been a dream of mine, and since the house was empty, I dived into my new line of work without the distraction of the family around.

When my daughters came back into the fold, I noticed something. I guess adulting was harder on them their sophomore year because my 20-year-old children began to rely on me just as they did before they were in college. When I saw the laundry pile up, I figured I would help them out and throw in a load or two. I said to myself, they were both working full-time summer jobs and were so busy. But, “helping out” really meant that I assumed a chore that they were doing independently for the past two years. While away at school, the girls did their laundry when they needed something to be washed. Once home, instead of doing it weekly (like I thought they should) they just let it pile up. That made me nuts, so I dutifully picked up clothes off the floor and threw them in the washer. I even folded their stacks in neat piles and placed them on their beds.

I began to feel resentful. I asked myself, did my daughters think that I suddenly had all the time in the world to do the chores they couldn’t work into their schedules? Did they believe that mom is working from home, so she has the time to run to the cleaners, the market, the department store, or the pharmacy? Did they think, I’ll just ask her instead of planning to take care of these things on my own time? I started to feel like a personal Gal Friday.

I can’t blame them if they did think that way. I did all of these things when I worked outside of the home. Even with my full-time job, I prepared dinner, unless I was too exhausted and ordered take out. On Saturdays, I would take the time to food shop and run errands so my work week would be less hectic. Inevitably, no matter how much I planned, there were times when I would dash home from work, make dinner and find out that we had to go to the store for something needed for that night’s homework, project, or presentation. When I was working outside of the home, my children were younger, and I believed that it was just part of my duty as a mom. The kids are older now and self-sufficient, and yet we seem to have fallen back on our familiar routines.

I guess it dawned on me when a friend invited me to grab a coffee last summer. I was dashing around trying to get all the errands done to meet up with her on time. I was late. We started comparing our hectic mornings, and to my surprise, hers was just as frenzied as mine!

“Is it me?” I asked. “Why does my family feel like they can load their responsibilities on me?” She and I compared notes, and we both had an “AHA” moment. We were part of the problem. We were allowing our kids (and, to some extent, our spouses) to let us carry the load for them. In turn, I was giving them permission to eat up the precious time in my day and lose focus on my work. I had applied for, and gotten the job as, the “Go-to Gal.” Was I forever doomed to be caught in this endless cycle becoming a momager every time they returned? So that got me thinking that something or someone had to change.

As I prepare for the return of the flock to the nest, I know that the best way to handle re-entry is to discuss my expectations and theirs. I can’t blame them entirely, as I am guilty of taking on a lot of the work. I want them to feel happy about being home, but I also want to promote a discussion about us falling into our familiar habits. I want to set boundaries on my time. I still want to be helpful, but I want to make the point that they can’t expect that I will be able to drop everything and do whatever they need.

I will have to remind my young adults that they need to make their own doctors’ appointments or any other appointment from now on. They have to be the keepers of their calendars and their wardrobe supply (including dry cleaning runs). I will have to respect that laundry will be washed on their timeline and not mine. And, any holiday returns or packages need to be mailed back by the receiver of said package.

Many of the women I surround myself with have similar stories. Parenting nearly adult children is hard for all of us. It can be hard to let go. At times, I wish I had a “Go-to Gal or Guy” to perform all the mundane tasks that take up my daily life, but alas, I don’t have a personal assistant. We all have to manage our precious time, and that takes forethought and planning. When you reach young adulthood, you have to assume your own responsibilities. You don’t get to pick and choose which ones you feel like doing; you have to do them all. It is mommy guilt that keeps us on the hamster wheel out of some desire to help or feel needed. My children will still love me even if I don’t do all their chores. I need to check that guilt off my already too long to-do list, and hand in my resignation as the “Go-to Gal.”

Jeanine Consoli, travel writer, photographer, foodie. https://jconstravels.com/