There’s a Fridge For That…

Those of us stuck in another time rarely fall for trends. Keeping the younger set close can help when you need someone to say, “Hey get a haircut,” or “Don’t wear that black dress ever again.” Although what could be wrong with any black dress is beyond me. Female chickens insist the dress is a no. Jury’s out–it’s still in the closet.

Baby Pea, the newest legalized addition to the fam and resident fashionista, lifestyle guru and advisor sends a gift for the season.

“It’s in two parts,” she instructs. “So don’t open the box marked Number 2 until you’ve got the one marked Number 1.” Got that?

Number 1 arrives solo, unwrapped, decked only in an Amazon smile. I open to reveal a tiny refrigerator.

“Does she think I need wine in the bedroom?” Examination proves the box too small for a bottle. It’s for champagne splits. I did inform all within ear shot that bubbles would consume 2020. Some make resolutions regarding jobs, relationships and money–others of us pick a cocktail for the upcoming year. 2020 marks the year of sparkly. So far, we’re obsessed with a French 75–vodka instead of gin. The petite fridge is for splits–enough for two french 75’s. Does she know something, or someone, I don’t?

Come the big reveal–Christmas morning and package Number 2. The box holds a jade roller, face masks and a kitten cable protector for good measure. Blueberry facials. Strawberry eye masks. Plumping, restoring, rejuvenating and revitalizing are evidently in my future. All the Chickens know my aversion to facial alteration. Have I pruned so much in one year they’ve all chipped in to help?

Turns out, the tiny fridge is for beauty products. It’s a Skin Fridge. Well, well. I missed this one in my rejection of all things trendy. And a grave error it was. Turns out, there’s nothing like adding morning serum and moisturizer fresh from the fridge. The first time you’ll feel a shock. Think Joan Crawford dunking her face in ice water. After that, you’ll dream of what else could benefit from being slapped, cold, on your face.

Draw a steamy bath, candles lit, pink Himalayan sea salts paired with a scent of your choosing. A combination of rose water, sweet pea and violet, perhaps? Champagne, chilled in the big girl fridge, sits perched in a lovely flute to the right. A cat lays on a stool nearby, dozing. Slip into the heat. Reach into your tiny fridge. Pull a mask from the assortment and apply it to your weathered parts. Your face. I can’t help with the other.

Lay back and feel the icy mask shrinking pores, filling wrinkles and completing the search for the skin of your youth. Sip your champs and breathe in the abundance of scents. Without the skin fridge, you’d be bouncing around the house scaring the cats. In the bath, they’ve come to expect anything. Hair akimbo, personal shaving, eyebrow shaping–what’s a mask made of charcoal and herbs?

As long as they don’t do that cat paw thing and knock the tiny fridge into the bath, this face is good to go. Baby Pea knows the way to a girl’s heart.

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