Some two weekends ago, when Katsumi was called into overnight duty in the service of digital machines, I made a master plan to have a solo night of copious drinking. (I know, you’ll all say I “have a problem”, and I’m not saying I don’t, but drinking alone is one of life’s finer pleasures. I can’t believe it hasn’t taken a firmer hold by now.) I stocked up on movies, potato chips, hummus and feta (shut up, it’s good) and, of course, wine.
But I needed something else, something more, something equal in decadence to the fifteen dollar bottle of Malbec. In short, I needed a new face mask.
Whether or not you feel me on the drinking alone vibe, I know every girl out there will attest to the restorative powers of a night of movies and masks. There’s something about relaxing in the privacy of your own home, slathering some weirly colored goo on your face, and settling in with a beverage and snack of your choice that resonates with women across the board. So I headed out to CVS.
After some perusal of the SkinCare aisle, I decided that microdermabrasion was the way to go, snd I bought the cheapest kit I could find. Sadly, when I got home, I found that the reason for it’s cheapness was that the kit came WITHOUT the mircodermabrasion thing you hold in your hand. Now, seriously, what the fuck is the point of that. I packed that shit back in the box and busted out my trusty Kiehl’s.
So yesterday Katsumi was under the weather, and I found myself with another quasi-solitary evening on my hands. I decided to go BACK to CVS and try to return my ill-fated purchase. It was 10:30 at night, so I had to hit up the 24-hour job (does “24 hour CVS” read as “bliss” to anyone else?) in Waltham.
I didn’t bring a CVS bag. I didn’t bring a CVS receipt. And I didn’t realize how shady that looked until I got the the counter and was on the receiving end of three very dirty looks. It was one of those situations where no amount of “I seriously really BOUGHT the thing last week”s, and “ha, I probably should have put it in a bag or something”s will convince the clerk that you’re not just another dirty rotten scoundrel slinking in late-night to run some dermabrasion scam.
After more futile explanations on my part, they gave me a store card and I went about my merry way, settling on a L’oreal kit to rid my face of that dead upper layer, as well as a small cache of cold remedies for my ailing fiancee. And when I got up to the register, I SWEAR TO GOD they were still talking about me.
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