Hypocrite

Yesterday, Paul was at a meeting in Beverly Hills, so I was killing time at one of the city’s shopping centers. I wandered into an expensive store to touch a couple of soft-looking blouses that I knew I could never afford. The saleslady informed me, in a heavy Eastern European accent, that everything was 30% off. I thanked her, and she went back to reading her magazine.

When I approached some skirts near where she was sitting, she held up a copy of Harper’s Bazaar featuring a beautiful photograph of Kate Winslet. “Do you ever seen Titanic?” she asked me. I told her I had seen it. “‘Dis the lady from dat movie.” She seemed offended. “God, she really different now. So old. And I tink she got so big.”

“Really? I think she looks fantastic.”

“No no no. She is old, like 40, 50 year.” Kate Winslet’s in her mid-thirties. “Look! LOOK! Look at dis wrinkle.” (She pronounced it “rin-kahl.”) I looked down at her finger, which she was wildly stabbing at a tiny smile line on Kate’s face. Then I looked up at her face, full of creases, blotches and chins, as she shook her head and said, “Shame. I tink she use to be good.”

I finished touching a silky pair of pants, thanked the woman and left. I’d just learned why everyone’s so obsessed with Alpha Hydroxy Acid.

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