Your Treasured Chest

plus, falling for the worst kind of scan

Welcome readers, old and new! Please hit the ❤️ button to switch out your favorite perfume for a… deodorant?

Still in nail-biting mode about next week’s election, I was thrilled to receive an email from a reader recounting her efforts to relieve her own anxieties. She allowed me to share her slightly edited story here; I hope you’ll find it as inspiring as I did.

Dear Val,

Yesterday, in a blind panic over the election, I recalled Michelle Obama’s admonition to DO SOMETHING and headed over to the democratic headquarters to make phone calls. I was there before they opened. No hours were posted on the closed door. I stared inside the dark HQ and thought “Oh well. I tried. I can go home.” (I hate getting phone calls. I hate making phone calls.) But. So dire was my concern that instead of sneaking back to my lair of despair, I crossed the street and poked around Sephora. (Maybe if I waited, HQ would open soon.)

Oh. My. God. An emporium selling what I now know (thank you, Val) is expensive snake oil. Jar after jar of false hope. I wanted with all my ancient heart to discover that one true bottle—the holy grail that would do the trick and smooth out the corrugations on my chin, the ridges around my mouth. Alas. No magic bottle to be found. (I did buy a Nars cream blush that doesn't seem to settle into wrinkles. Now I can look like a pink-cheeked wrinkled person.)

However, the good news is that when I slunk out of Sephora, the HQ was open.  I made lots and lots of terrible phone calls—apologizing for bothering the nice humans who didn’t hang up on me—and even tried to reason with a person who shrieked “They’re eating the cats, they’re eating the dogs!” And weirdly, I somehow felt less panicky last night. The ONLY antidote to the fear of this election is to get involved. To do something. Anything. To move the needle. I know I was not successful on those calls in that I persuaded no one to do anything they weren’t already planning to do. I did however get my daughter-in-law to make calls and she, wonderful therapist that she is, did change a few minds and seemingly a few votes.

At the very least, being in a room with other people who care about the outcome of this election as much as we do helps. (That and maybe Xanax.)

Thank you for your column; think how much money I saved at Sephora!

And in other news…

The other day as I was undressing in front of a full-length mirror, I stopped to take a close look at myself. (Yikes.) And I realized how infrequently—like almost never—I do that, either with my face or my body. The result is that I see a kind of hazy, Vaseline-over-the-lens view, which I’m pretty sure is one of the reasons I have a robust self-image. Even in those few minutes scanning my (nearly 74-year-old) body, noticing the unwelcome but inescapable adornments of age, I understood the deep unhappiness that kind of critical looking can arouse. And I thought again about those of us who habitually do that, particularly with our face. Listen, you don’t hang unflattering photos of yourself around your house, do you? Why hang in front of the mirror and try to find the most unflattering things about your face? Try this instead.

Now, a curious reader wants to know the best way to treat her décolletage, which seems to be a little worse for the wear.

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