La Alaskeña

I love the ground floor of Nordstrom, because you can buy chocolate, perfume, jewelry and makeup all in the same place without having to board those terrifying escalators that ate one of my Keds when I was seven. The problem is that I tend to get overwhelmed by all the possibilities. The expensive possibilities.
I go there looking for miracles, fulling expecting that if I fork over enough cash, I’ll get one. If I’d applied the same wide-eyed credulity to my religion, I’d probably still be in Provo, raising two sets of triplets. Thankfully, I only believe everything I’m told about cosmetic products and pharmaceuticals.
I walked up to the Clinique counter, my default starting point, and put the fate of my lately pimplescent (I just made that word up and I think it’s awesome) skin and my bank account in the hands of the teenage salesgirl. She must know more than I do, right? More than my doctor, who told me to quit eating wheat and left it at that. (Even if forsaking wheat gave me the pearly, ethereal glow of Nicole Kidman, I would not, I COULD NOT stop eating bread.)
Ten whirlwind minutes later, and I’ve dropped $120 in exchange for a cream called “Help Me” and two vials full of some sort of “peel”. As in chemical peel. As in, I got home, tried it out, found it not unlike a terrible chemistry class accident, and cried, “I paid $75 for THIS?!”
But you know what, once the swelling went down, I looked in the mirror and I think I look a good two months younger. If I keep it up, in a month I’ll be 18 again, and that might just be worth $75.