It started with a bar of soap. Almond soap. Triple milled, old fashioned, sophisticated and expensive, from a company that has been around since 1752. An American brand to rival, as the website says, “the legendary houses of Europe.”

And I paid full price, although with an eagle eye you can find this soap on the shelves at TJMaxx. I bought a sister soap a year ago, maybe longer, in an old, but upscale, pharmacy in St. Louis. Paid top dollar then, too. Like my grandmothers, I set it aside because I thought it was too good to use, saving it, or what? The day my nieces toss it in the trash at the final clearing out of my home ahead of the FOR SALE sign?

But no more. A fancy soap is a small luxury, within anyone’s reach and I am going to use it up, then order some more.

Here’s the deal. I grew up in a family with five kids vying for the one bathroom, and buddy, you have to be quick, and I was. I still am, and I wonder what my girlfriends think, when we are on one of our trips, all crammed into a big house or condo, taking turns getting ready. I am so quick surely they whisper concerns about how clean, really, could I be?
One of our pals takes an hour and a half getting ready. She really does. I can’t imagine what she is doing in there. To be fair, she never makes us wait for her. She knows how long she needs, and if we are leaving for a day trip at nine, she is about her ablutions by 7:30. She is sitting sweetly in the back seat by 8:58.

But this almond soap, you all. You have never smelled anything quite like it, and it inspires long baths, and showers, and lots of sudsy sensory enjoyments. I get it now, lingering at one’s toilette. Because I haven’t stopped at almond soap. Oh, no. I have researched lotions and potions and buffs and masks and I have set about procuring them, the better to scent and spritz and slather myself.

It is glorious.

I missed this in my formative years. As an adolescent I didn’t have lotion or powder, lip balm or eau de cologne at my disposal. Zest soap, Vaseline, and Champho-phenique were our signature scents. Along with mercurochrome and its evil twin, methiolate, a pair of tweezers and some adhesive tape, our family hygiene/first aid kit was complete.

What money I earned from babysitting was spent on book and 45’s culled from the bins at the Wax Works. My mother wasn’t fixy, and overwhelmed to boot, so we never had mother-daughter afternoons of magazines and nail polish, lip gloss and Dippity-Do. My friends weren’t particularly fussy, either, or if they were, it was carried out at home. We sometimes made fun of the girls who cared about their hair and engaged in those first attempts at being pretty, prettier.

We were a sarcastic bunch and ridicule was our game, and no way were we risking it being turned on ourselves within the tribe. Speaking for myself, my eye rolls and sneers for girly girls were in direct proportion to my own jealousy and inadequacy. Growing up with brothers who were brutal in their takedowns didn’t help, either.

My girls group, the same one from those long ago days, are all girly, now. Or maybe we are just trying to save our skin, quite literally. We sit around for hours with our sangria and blood pressure pills, little puddles of supplements we eat like peanuts, discussing moisturizers and facial peels, sunscreens and rash guards, foundations and eye shadow, having our eyes done–medically indicated, mind– and who’s up for pedicures later today?

Just this morning I was out looking for a soap saver to protect my delicious almond soap, triple-milled though it is. I don’t want to waste any of it. Later today a new order of facial cleanser and moisturizer will arrive, and I am contemplating foot masks.

My new goal is to clock myself as I go about my ablutions, set the ambition to take, if not an hour and a half, at least more than twelve minutes. Start a list of products and beauty tips to share with the girls, the next time we are together. Look forward to reveling in the experience as we giggle and gently tease each other, with nary an eye roll to be found.