Fake News: My Big, Fat, Beautiful Eye Cream

I was so close. 

The escalator was within spitting distance when she caught me in her cross hairs. (I could swear she grabbed my arm, but I pretty sure that kind of thing is frowned upon in the employee manual.) A minute and a half, she told me. That's all she would need to give my face a lift. Not that it needed one, of course. 

I thought about this when my friend, texting occasional reports from her royal-watching perch somewhere near Buckingham Palace, informed me she had just bought something called 90th birthday creamer. (This was after she shut me down for what could have been construed as a disrespectful comment about the Queen's vitality). The Queen rocks, she scolded. And then she told me about the creamer. 

Back to this side of the pond, to the wrinkle Nazi. To make a long story short, I took the bait, and, after enduring about 45 minutes of gentle insults delivered with surgical precision by the flawlessly skinned Brianna, I skulked off with a shopping bag filled with miracle ointments and droppers and written instructions about how best to achieve the miraculous non-surgical plumping of my lifeless face.  

Fast forward. It's been three days, and the only detectable plumping in my face is the red blotches. Well, to be fair, the ones in the dark crescents under my eyes are closer to purple. Note to self: text my friend in London, tell her to throw in a few jars of the 90th birthday creamer. Right now, I'd give anything to look as youthful as the Queen. 

Well shame on me for being sold a bill of goods. Again. I hate to admit it, but this was not my first (or even second) rodeo with the likes of the wrinkle Nazi and the flawless Brianna. They had me -- and my Achilles heel -- pegged, and I fell for it, just like they knew I would. It was less about the obviously false promise of smooth skin and filled in wrinkles than the unsubtle reminder of how dire my situation was. Bad, very bad. I had nothing to lose. 

I am off to buy some cucumbers and Vaseline (get your minds out of the gutter) so I can soothe my irritated eyes and flaming cheeks. The best I can hope for is to be no worse off than when I started, before I got caught in the cross hairs. And, of course, I await my jar of false hope, from across the pond.