Once a month I indulge in my “girly” side with a trip to the salon. It’s a world of female indulgences. While sitting and waiting my turn for beautification, I was skimming a recent “women’s” magazine and came across an article on new ways to reclaim one’s perky breasts. The thought occurred to me that if I’m worried about a partner being disappointed in my almost-sixty-year-old, less than perky breasts, I’m probably wading in the kiddie pool end of the ocean of life.
The models and movie starlets had flawless skin; no sagging upper arms or furrowed brows. I looked up at myself in the mirror then glanced at the folks surrounding me. Real life was a different picture, but no one seemed particularly bothered by the stark contrast. I watched one proud technician sporting a huge pregnant belly sashay past and admired her girth.
For several hours I watched as women came and went in various stages of renewal. Those who had just endured hair removal bore tender looking upper lips, others with new hair-styles glanced appreciatively into the mirrors as they craned their necks for a 360° view. They chatted about their kids, the news, schools, marriage, and weekend plans. I felt one with an odd band of co-conspirators taking time out to sharpen our weapons and step back from the routine.
Guilty pleasures are rare these days in my life. I have given up all but a few. Sunday night is still my “Spa Night” as it used to mean the start of another work week and I would crawl out of my barn clothes and plan my attack on Wall Street. It took a good hot soak and a shift of attitude to get me in the mood to pick out my work-week “armor” and switch my brain over to that persona. These days there is less shift and certainly the wardrobe is simpler but I still indulge in a night of feeding my skin and relaxing.
Aside from those late night pistachio binges, my guilty pleasures have become few and far between…