I realized recently, with a shock, that I had more or less stopped caring how I looked.
Not quite sure when it happened, it must have been gradual.
I don't mean, film-shorthand-for-clinical-depression-the-actress-playing-Sylvia-Plath-has-dirty-hair insouciance, more moisturizer's-job-is-to-keep-your-face-from-cracking-not-be-the-fountain-of-youth insouciance.
In my other life my looks mattered in a way they do not now.
Poor Himself, after all, he bares the brunt of my carelessness.
So, you'll have to take my word for this, the claims that a pillow case could cure crows' feet or a "craggy neck" is of little interest, but the idea that new copper-infused bed linens might help with eczema and allergies?
I'm all over that.
I dearly hope its claims have at least an eentsy bit of some basis in fact.
Something to enhance, not my looks, and not my health, but my comfort?
I want to go to there.
This could be to this decade what my discovery of the wonder that is Bag Balm was to my last. (Cursed be those cows for trying to keep this to themselves!!!!!!)
A few years ago, (when I did still care about my appearance a tiny bit, IIRC,) a wonderful, wonderful, religious brother temporarily in residence here absolutely laid me out with a wisecrack.
It was insanely cold and I had some monstrously ugly Thinsulate thing from Land's End on my head, and he said -- quite a chapeau. Well, I guess you're old enough not to care how you look.
(As you can imagine, Br. G was the terror of the rectory. I miss him.)