cosmeticslog

The fact that I'm choosing to kick this blog off with a review of the Origins™ footcare line should tell you a thing or two about what kind of a girl I am. And that is one whose feet have gone to shit.


It all started at the ripe age of 4 when I was forced into a pair of ballet slippers for 5 years, followed by 3 en pointe. And in employing the term en pointe here, naturally I'm hoping you'll more easily be able to picture the petite, chainsmoking, Sanka-drinking Frenchwoman named Claude Vallet who stood in the middle of the room holding a broomstick 5 feet off the floor, demanding that everyone in the class successfully tour-jette over it at the end of class each night as a requirement for dismissal. En pointe! En pointe! En pointe!


And though every blister, corn, and callous resulting from those early years of dancing is still visible in some faint trace on both my feet, the pain itself had long since subsided -- that is, up until a few years ago when I decided it would be a good idea to walk at least fifty blocks a day without batting an eye. Not being the type comfortable with walking into a pedicure salon and having a complete stranger cut off chunks of my flesh with a pairing knife, at first I thought that the 2-inch-thick layer of dead, hardened skin lining both my feet was just something I'd have to deal with. That is, until Summer arrived and I thought I'd take a stab at sporting open-toed sandals.


The pair I fell in love with were obtained at Payless for around $12.99. They were black sling-back wedges in a 7 1/2. And though that is -- and has always been -- my shoe size, they felt a bit on the snug side, but I figured the several long blocks to the subway home from Richie's would be the perfect breaking-in trek. It wasn't until I was stepping into pools of my own blood that I realized they were mercilessly slicing apart my toes.


But I still hearted the make and model, and all bandaged-up the next day at work -- and still sporting the selfsame shoes that had cut me up, but over bandaids, which somehow justified it -- I limped on over to Payless to obtain an 8. And as another thing that's gone to shit is my luck, they only had them in beige, which I begrudgingly accepted as divine punishment for running my own damn feet into the ground in the first place.


I wore the 8s for a couple days, excruciatingly painfully, but justified it as being because of the cuts the 7 1/2s had inflicted. It's not like they've caused any new damage, I told myself whilst walking from 53rd to 23rd St. & back, tearfully wincing.


And then one day my mom came in and we went to the Cloisters & other places that require lots of walking, so I opted for a pair of ol' sneaks for a change, which felt gloriously, unbelievably comfortable. And as she was leaving, she handed me a wad of bills -- as many moms are prone to do upon feeling there must have been some tragic flaw in their methods of child-rearing based on the alarmingly rapid evolution of their second-born daughters into spinsters -- and instead of spending it all on designer knockoff handbags, pints of Stella, or frappuccinos, I marched right on down to Origins™ and picked me up one of these here "Touch Your Toes" sets.


When I tried the stuff out I had to admit it's pretty damn keen. I can see myself getting quite addicted to pretty much everything at Origins™, in a very VitaminWater-esque way, based solely on the pure & simple, virginal packaging and the openly Huxleyan consumerist psychology lingo. I can see myself somewhere along the line, standing in front of a display of 92 different aromatherapy elixirs for a good couple frantic hours, genuinely trying to determine which one -- at that particular moment -- I need.


But for now I'll stick with eucalyptus, ground lava rocks, and "Mentha Piperita", thanks. My feet have yet to show visible results, but at least they smell like a goddamn Californian wildlife reservation after a thunderstorm.