Personal Yummy #32
On my way home from my lunchtime Zumba class at the Ailey Extension, I walk uptown on the west side of Madison Avenue in the bright sunshine of a beautiful February afternoon. I feel refreshed and energized as my eyes take in the stunning dresses and sleek shoes that call to me—with much eagerness—from the shop windows.
I pass by the white and red façade of Bar Italia, an elegant eatery located between 65th and 66th—I would love to dine there sometime—and I can’t help but smile at, and make eye contact with, one of the three attractive women, in just-as-attractive coats, sitting in front of the restaurant at a quaint table. They are chatting and enjoying each other’s company, three stemmed glasses accompanying them.
What a perfect way to spend a Monday afternoon in winter: good friends, conversation, and white wine…
Continuing my walk, I see a young man and a young woman standing in front of a cosmetics boutique, little white bags in their hands. From past experience, I know that they are handing out samples of moisturizer, in the hope of drawing customers to the store.
Usually I take a sample and then keep going, saying—as I briskly walk on—“Thank you so much, but this is all I need for now,” amid their aggressive solicitations for me to come inside and try some other samples to reduce the puffiness under my eyes.
Today, however, I am feeling quite at ease, so without really meaning to, I allow the pretty young woman with dark hair and dark eyes—her eyes completely devoid of puffiness, in fact—to give me a moisturizer sample, and then I actually wait for her to go inside the store and come back out with a large silver tube that contains, according to her descriptions, some kind of magical elixir.
“So, where are you from?” she asks me in her accented English as she tells me to look up and then gently applies some of the tinted cream to the puffy area under my right eye.
I think about telling her that I’m originally from the middle of Pennsylvania, but instead I simply say, “I live here in New York.”
“Oh, yes? A New Yorker, no?”
“Yes, for quite a long time now.”
“Well, you know, the reason I ask is that, I really thought that you were Russian. Yes, you look very, very Russian… Very much so. Very much like one of my very good Russian friends, you know. It’s your eyes. Yes, it’s your eyes, you know.”
I laugh.
“Well,” I begin, “it really doesn’t surprise me that you say that… I hear it all the time. All the time. In fact, just last week, as I was waiting for the subway, a Russian man who didn’t speak much English asked me if I was Russian. I could tell that he needed directions, but unfortunately, I couldn’t help him.”
“I only say it to you because it’s a compliment,” she explains, as she studies my face and lightly touches it. “And, you know, you really don’t have any wrinkles at all…and your skin is very healthy. The only thing is…it’s just the puffiness under your eyes, you know…the puffiness… Do you use anything on your face?” she asks.
“Nothing much, really. Just some moisturizer every now and then.”
“But your skin is very sensitive, no? I can see some redness in your cheeks.”
“Yes, it is sensitive. I would say that’s correct.”
“And so…you do not, so you do not care about the puffiness under your eyes? You mean, this does not bother you?”
Wow.
I, myself, wouldn’t dare to ask this of someone I have just met, but—then again—don’t you just love the forthrightness of some people?
“I wouldn’t say that it doesn’t bother me,” I answer, “but there’s really not too much I can do about it, so I’ve just accepted it. And, well, I think it’s genetic. My eyes have pretty much always been this way, as far as I can remember. Sure, they’ve gotten a bit worse over the years, but, you know, I have my dad’s eyes. Not the color, but the shape. My dad’s eyes are the same way. Really, I wish that the puffiness weren’t there, but, in all honesty, I’m not that worried about it.”
She looks at me for a moment, as if she is trying to decide whether she believes me or not, or whether she believes that I really believe it.
“Well,” she says, as she holds up a mirror in front of me, a little twinkle all of a sudden appearing in her eyes, “what do you think about this?”
So I look in the mirror, and, I must admit, I am quite shocked at the result! There is a significant contrast between my treated right eye and my untreated left eye.
“Big difference, no? Very good, right?” she asks me, her eyes sparkling.
“Well, yes. It is a big difference,” I agree, the puffiness under my right eye completely gone. “And, I have to say, I really wasn’t expecting that.”
Because I really wasn’t. It makes me wonder, though—seriously—what’s in this stuff?
“Yes, so good, no? Makes you look like a completely different person.”
Ah, c’mon, now. I wouldn’t go that far.
I do look somewhat different, however. But, at this moment, I’m not convinced I really like it. There’s something strange about messing with the under-eye area. I’ve always thought that it has the potential to drastically change someone’s essence.
“It feels really weird, though,” I comment. Because, in all truthfulness, it does. I can’t help but imagine that there are little elves with little tools and little strings, working very hard to stretch out, smooth, and tack down the skin under my eye, like in some crazy twisted version of Gulliver’s Travels.
“Come on in,” she says, walking back toward the store and not waiting for me to protest, “we’ll do the other eye for you.”
At this point, why not? I’m trying to be more open to everything these days, so I follow her in.
And again, it’s not what I expected.
Standing at the front of the petite store at a mini counter is a beautiful man waiting to greet me. He’s tall—but not too tall—elegant, and sophisticated, with wavy, dark hair; dark, expressive eyes; and a nice body in a black jacket and black pants cropped at his ankles. Very European, very stylish, and very modern.
“Oh, yes, I see that you’ve tried the nonsurgical eye-lift cream? And it is working so well? Yes? Yes, yes, let me do the other eye for you. And yes, I really like your hat,” he adds.
My hat. Yes, my simple, furry, warm, handmade, brown, leopard-like hat that I bought a few years ago in a beautiful little shop on Richard Street in my Pennsylvania hometown. And here it is now in an upscale boutique on Madison Avenue.
He delicately applies the cream under my left eye as he explains the product and its ingredients and how to use it, how much it costs, and the big discount that he could give me today. He also applies a hand exfoliator to my right hand, and as he rubs it in he tells me that if I purchase the eye cream, which he could give me for three hundred today—the usual price is six hundred fifty—he would throw in the hand scrub for free.
I have no intention of buying anything today, and I tell him that, but it’s not lost on me that I am so fortunate to be communicating with this calm, articulate, and beautiful man.
“So, are you Irish?” he asks, studying my eyes, saying that sometimes the puffiness has to do with genetics and ethnicity.
“Well,” I say, “I have quite a bit of Italian in me, among other things.”
“Oh, yes. That makes sense, then. But, well, you know…puffiness or no, your eyes are certainly beautiful, regardless, and such a beautiful color. You have the fortune of variety, no?… For me, I am all the same…dark hair, dark eyes…”
Believe me, I want to tell him, it’s not a problem.
“Thank you,” I say. “And you—where are you from?”
“France,” he answers.
“France. So nice.”
“Yes, from Pair-ee, to be exact.”
This is getting better by the second.
“Your skin is very sensitive, yes?” he asks, getting back to the original reason we are standing here together. “I can see a bit of a red rash on your cheeks…”
“Yes, it is. But it’s even more red now because I worked out not too long ago.”
This nugget of information seems to please him.
“So, what is your name?” he finally asks.
I tell him.
“Oh, very beautiful.”
“And yours?” I ask.
He tells me.
“Fred, did you say?”
“Yes, Fred… Well, actually, Freddie. You know. Like Freddie Mercury.”
“Oh, yes.” I nod.
“Are you familiar with him? Do you like him?” he inquires.
“Freddie Mercury? Oh, sure. Yes, I like him very, very much. His music—and voice…so amazing.”
He nods.
And then: “I like you,” he says.
He leans toward me.
“A little more about you?” he adds. “So, let me ask you, are you married, or are you happy?”
Wow.
There’s that forthrightness thing once again.
I immediately start giggling, rather impressed with the ingeniousness—and revelatory nature—of his question (and despite its tinge of cynicism).
“Well, hey…I must say…I’ve never heard that question asked in quite that way before”—I giggle more—“but, I like it…” I admit, studying him. “Yes, I think I like it.”
He smiles.
I smile back at him.
“But—to answer your question—I’m happy… Yes. I’m very, very happy.”
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