minalisms

When I look in the mirror these days, I zero in on my raccoon eyes and flaky skin, which are likely a result of heredity and a fickle skincare regimen. Last night, staring at my reflection, I swore that the dark circles looked bigger, uglier.

Thus came urgency.

I reached to the right and grabbed my Bag o’ Tricks, a makeup bag containing dozens of free samples from Sephora — cleansers, face creams, masks, eye creams, moisturizers, lip balms, etc. — and pricey, half-used products long forgotten because oftentimes decluttering spaces simply involves stashing away clutter.

First I took out the facial cleansing pads and took them to task — a bit too eagerly — like sandpaper on plywood. Not surprisingly, my face reacted with redness.

After rinsing and patting dry, I pulled out a sample of eye cream, sternly directing it to “Do your job, you bastard,” prior to application.

Soon enough, it felt as though my eyeballs were on fire. But I muffled the sounds of anguish for the sake of my sleeping husband and concluded, “It must be working.”

When it was time to moisturize my face, I sifted through myriad packets and tubes until I came upon an “Extra Emollient Night Cream” that gave me flashes of soft, radiant skin. I ripped open the packet and slathered the squishy, pink jelly all over.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I thought, observing my varnished face and sticky palms. So I reviewed the packaging. This time I saw “Extra Emollient Night Cream for Hands.”

I thought about how sorely I failed every step of skin care, no longer dumbfounded about why I’m aging ungracefully. I considered washing the gunk off my face, but, tired and defeated, I walked my stinging eyes and red, greasy face to the bed, placed a towel over my pillow, and went to sleep.