When you think about all the physical pain we women go through each day to dress and impress, its no wonder we savor the nights alone adorned in the most sacred attire: our ugliest sweat pants, the hoodie with the chocolate sauce stain and free, unobstructed pores. I was in the beauty aisle in Target the other day looking for yet another facial miracle in a bottle when I noticed a little wrinkled old lady examining the bottles of facial lotion. I imagined that she had to literally move the sagging skin above her eyes to see the labels in her basket of anti-aging elixirs. As she tossed one more wrinkle cream bottle into her basket, I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Why would an old lady, who clearly was already acquainted with gravity, bother with all the beauty products? I then started to feel guilty. Why can't she still be a woman, hoping that the "promise in the bottle" will actually be able to work its magic on her wrinkled and weathered skin?! I believe all the women who peruse the shelves of magic bottles have the hope that they will uncover the magic formula that will transform their facial terrain. Why else would we slather on green goop, polka-dot our pores with cream and try so desperately to scrub away the frustrations we see in the mirror each morning? But alas, all our hard work, our toil and tears comes to nothing as our hope and dreams are shattered with a new breakout or another mark of age. Weary, we toss out another bottle, along with our optimism. Oh the toil of womanhood. We vow to be content, but where do we find ourselves in a few days? We are back, scouring the aisle ways in Target, searching, hoping, praying to discover the true miracle serum this time around.
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