At Long Last
While she waited for her prescription to be filled, Maria
scanned the shelves of Target, taking in the laxatives, feminine products and
antacids that lined the section closest to the pharmacy counter. She was tired,
her throat ached and she was grateful for the amoxicillin being filled for her
after five days of feeling awful. She hadn’t expected the diagnosis of strep
throat even though swallowing was painful – it was nothing like the first time
she had strep, at age 14 when she was on the swim team, shivering in her
swimsuit at the side of the pool, and her gym teacher, Mr. Cavalo, insisted she
go to the doctor because she felt feverish. Her mom reluctantly took her –
doctor visits were not customary in Maria’s family – and Maria remembered the
sweet relief once the amoxicillin took hold and began eradicating the bacteria
that made her throat feel like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. Maria’s mom
made her go back to school, and back to swim team, the very next day, because
being sick, and, more importantly, whining about it, was taboo in Maria’s
family.
Maria’s mom worked tirelessly taking care of her five kids
– Maria and her sister and three rowdy, rambunctious boys, all born within six
years. She cooked, cleaned, hosted fancy birthday parties and over-the-top
holiday celebrations. She scoffed at the other moms who worked jobs outside the
home and wore blazers and fancy heeled shoes, and she never missed a chance to
sneer at a cheap paper invitation to the local jump house for a classmate’s birthday
celebration. When the neighborhood moms got pedicures or salon haircuts,
Maria’s mom never had anything nice to say. Too expensive, too much fuss,
should spend the money on the kids.
Wandering a bit farther down the aisles, Maria came to the
makeup section. The offerings were dizzying and quite a departure from her
usual Cover Girl foundation and mascara. She had never considered anything
else, as these were the identical cosmetics her mom had used and Maria had been
taught that anything beyond evening out her complexion and swiping on mascara
was overkill. And maybe a little bit trampy. Maria perused eyeshadow pallets
offering shimmering aqua, sunshine yellow and plum purple hues. Where would she
ever wear such things? To her administrative assistant job at Cole’s Custom
Cabinetry? Certainly not. Two aisles over she spotted face masks, bath poufs
and creamy concoctions meant to be used in the shower. Her usual bar of Ivory
soap seemed sterile and boring in comparison. But soap is soap, her mother
always said. Maria had never even considered smelling like a sun-ripened
raspberry. Ivory was good enough.
When her own daughter was a teen, of course, Maria
remembered being begged and wheedled to buy expensive face creams, fancy body
wash, and overpriced nail polish. And of course, Maria indulged, as mothers do.
But she never considered following suit, taking part in what her daughter now
called “self-care”. Even with two little ones of her own, Maria’s daughter
regularly indulged in spa treatments, weekends away with her girlfriends, and
salon haircuts at a price that made Maria gasp. She just didn’t see the point. Certainly,
some stray gray hairs had started their invasion on her normally jet-black
mane, but Maria managed just fine with her $8.99 Nice and Easy 100% gray
coverage box color.
Like her mother, Maria was steady and predictable. No
frills, no fuss. She could feel her mother rolling her eyes at the display of
body scrubs in front of her, likely thinking “waste of money” and “indulgent”.
Maria moved on and found herself in the shampoo aisle. Suave for Men. That’s
what her husband used. Her ex-husband. Paul was living in Costa Rica now –
Costa Rica! – with his new wife and her two teenagers. Paul never minded
Maria’s simple ways; he, too, pooh-poohed anything fancy or expensive. At least
when he was married to Maria. Once he met Lita, his new wife, he went from
Cheapskate to Big Spender. During their marriage, Maria couldn’t think of a
time they spent an anniversary or birthday at a restaurant above the caliber of
Olive Garden. But honestly? Pasta is pasta. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
Maria wandered back to the face-mask aisle. It was so
bright and cheerful. And what was a foot peel anyway? She examined bottles and
packets – argan oil, seaweed, enzymes. Did it really matter? Wouldn’t a $2.99
bottle of Jergens moisturize as well as an $8.99 bottle of Tree Hut Shea Butter?
She twisted open a bottle of coconut-mango body wash and sniffed. Is this what
the tropics smelled like? Maria wouldn’t know. And anyway, it was six dollars.
Ivory soap was twelve bars for four dollars. Much better investment.
Maria wandered past the pharmacy counter again, making eye
contact with the pharmacist, sending the message that she was still waiting. He
gave her a brief, if not bored, nod and returned, head-down to his business.
Sighing, Maria returned to Aisle 14 and its rainbow of indulgent offerings.
Without thinking she chose a grapefruit face mask and
dropped it in her red shopping cart. She picked it back up, hesitating, and
dropped it back down. Why not? It was two dollars. Might be fun to try. She
returned to the coconut-mango body wash, just to smell it one more time, but
before she knew it, that, too had dropped into the cart. Undeterred, she tossed
in a rosewater face wash and the complimentary toner and moisturizer fell in
after. She could hear her mother saying “Too expensive!” Her husband scoffing
at the scent. In went the foot peel and a butt mask – a butt mask? She giggled
at the thought of her, bare-cheeked, smearing this concoction all over and then
– what? Stand for twenty minutes while it dried? Is this the self-care her
daughter spoke of? Did her daughter use butt masks? Maria could hardly contain
her laughter as she moved down the aisle – Moroccan oil hair mask,
color-changing nail polish, and a sudden, impulsive side trip to the clothing
section to procure the fluffiest terry-cloth robe she could find in her size.
Back at the pharmacy counter she paid for her antibiotics,
longing for the relief that would wash over her once they did their work. The
pharmacist peeked over the counter and said “You can pay for your other
purchases here as well.” Maria glanced at the basket and for a brief moment she
considered abandoning the cart and rushing off to her small but cozy apartment,
her Lean Cuisine and her murder mystery shows. She didn’t NEED these things.
She wasn’t even sure she wanted them. Too much money, waste, no frills, no
fuss. “Shut up!” she whispered to herself. “Pardon?” said the pharmacist. “Yes,
please, I’d like to pay here” replied Maria as she scooped up the products and
dropped them clumsily on the counter. “Thank you!” she projected, a bit too
enthusiastically. She grabbed a packet of Trident, minty cool twist, and added
that to the pile. Just for today, the mantras in her head, her mother, her
ex-husband, herself could be silenced. Just for today.
