A while ago, I decided to do something about my newly-puffy eyes. I headed to the cosmetics department of my favorite department store and asked for help from the perfectly-made-up saleswoman. She had the cream for me—a dab under each eye morning and night and no more bags, she promised. She said that no one had ever returned it. So I handed over way too much money and was on my way.
Seven weeks later to the day, I returned to the counter to spoil the record of no returns. I had a long conversation with a different saleslady. She said she lived by that cream, that if I had used it properly and it hadn’t worked, I probably needed plastic surgery.
I told her I was seventy-three and since my husband’s eyesight is failing, surgery seemed extreme. She said that I couldn’t be seventy-three (I was wearing my tight Brazilian jeans). Then she told me that having survived breast cancer surgery fifteen years ago, she would never elect a surgical procedure. I told her I was glad she was still alive. Then I bought everything I could think of—lipstick, eye shadow, mascara. By the time I left, I had a new friend.
Now I have a new plan. According to the Internet, top models fix puffy eyes with cucumber slices.
Next stop, the produce department.