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Of Dead Sea Salt and Undies

by Mary Struble Deery

April 26, 2013

Those folks who hawk goods in the mall concourse really take the fun out of shopping. But I go anyway, because that’s where the store is that sells the kind of undies I like. I’m not fussy about much, but I am about my undies. On sale – seven pairs for $35. That’s my language.

As I hustled by the kiosks in the middle of the concourse, a gal working at one handed me a sample of what turned out to be Anti-Aging Complex Intensive Age Treatment Cream. As I was trying to read the label – the print was small – she looked at my hands and, with practiced incredulity, asked, “Are you a nurse?” Clearly the implication was that I was someone who repeatedly washed my hands but she blew her marketing opportunity right at that moment.

Since I was a fifty something lady, in the mall at mid-day, I couldn’t have been a doctor -- No, I had to be a nurse, which incidentally, I’m not. On the other hand, if I were a doctor, would I be searching for such cheap undies?

I’d seen these businesses touting everything from sunglasses to cell phones along the center walkway, but I’d never really given them much thought. But this gal was getting all my attention, like it or not.

Before I knew it she dumped a pile of wet salt into my palm so I could experience how utterly effective her product was by rubbing my hands together. It was salt from the Dead Sea, which she informed me was 30,000 feet below sea level –so really dead, and apparently really good at making nurse-looking hands look like normal hands. I had no other choice than to rub as instructed. There was no escaping until I could get the salt off my hands.

As I gazed at the sink wishing I could rinse my hands, she focused her best saleslady gaze at me and said, “Your eyes are so blue.” Why wouldn’t I want them to look their best? Didn’t I want lotions that would make me look younger with fewer lines and bags? This all zinged by me so fast I didn’t even have time to be insulted. She turned on the water in a sink so I could wash my hands. At the same time, uninvited, she started working on one of my eyes, first applying cleanser, then toner, followed by moisturizer. An eye-lift without the scalpel – just apply this magic potion three times a week.

OK, I’m my mother’s child and she was a no-nonsense kind of gal. “What’s wrong with aging gracefully?” I asked. She smoothly replied that this is a new world, full of pollution. Our protective ozone is disappearing! These potions cost under $300. Wasn’t I worth it?

Before I was able to answer, she asked me what kind of shoes she was wearing? Hmmm…never noticed.

Then she asked, “What color are my eyes?”

Well, of course they’re hazel, because I’m looking at them right now. Bingo! She had me. Your eyes are where it’s at and I needed to buy her products.

But I don’t even buy Jergens. There was no way I was going to fall for this. I assured her I would look at the eye she had doctored up, compare it to the untouched eye and, IF there was a difference, I would be back.

Off to the fancy pants store to take advantage of the great deal. On my way back to the parking lot I saw her accosting other mall goers so was able to sneak by – me, my wrinkles and my bags – the new one with my undies and the old ones under my eyes.

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