There’s that old-fashioned bar of shrink wrapped Ivory Soap on the counter. How quaint. I can still remember the beautiful faces of the models who graced the Ivory Soap ads when I was a girl. They looked wholesome and impossibly perfect to me. I remember wishing I could grow into such a stunning beauty.
I realized tonight, with a slightly unpleasant shock, that I am a princess. Actually, I feel a bit like a prince-ass
We’re driving south, following an insane two weeks on Vancouver Island and as usual, have our two dogs in tow. They seriously limit your hotel accommodations down the I5 corridor.
We’ve been driving for 12 hours…so once we land in our hotel room…we’re not leaving until the morning.
The first thing I do after we check in, is wash the grime of the day off my hands.
Fast forward an hour…
Obviously…I’m in trouble. We’re exhausted and going nowhere… until the morning, I’ll just have to make do. As I lather the ivory soap to wash my face, a bizarre revulsion sweeps over me. When did I become too good for Ivory soap?
Probably in my teens, but now that my skin has hit the menopausal Sahara phase, the thought of it horrifies me. Seriously, Jennifer? I realize, there are probably millions of many women washing their faces with ivory soap tonight…and none of them will die in the process. Hmm…humbling!
Okay…so my face does feel a teeny bit shrink-wrapped from the ivory soap, but I wonder, is that all bad? I’ll know in the morning:)
Of course perhaps I’m just exhausted and I’ll realize in the morning that it WAS horrific to wash my face with ivory soap.
But if my face survives, I’ll realize I need to put a few more things into perspective. Simplifying my life may not include doing away with my favorite, organic face wash. But I do need to roll with the punches a little more.
Would you have used the Ivory Soap?
Would you have forced your husband yourself to go out to buy some face wash?