Marshmallows in the Bath
by
Mary Green
One cloudy day during 1997-98s el niņo winter, I felt an urgent need for something that might give my spirits a lift, and decided that buying myself some little frivolous item might help. What I had in mind was perfumed soap or bath beads; and maybe the luxury of complexion care products that weren't the house brands of some supermarket.I made up a list and planned a trip to the nearest emporium marketing those environment-friendly cosmetics and body-care products. Over the years my daughters have kept me supplied with gifts of lotions and bubble bath purchased at such a store. All of these made me feel special when I used them, hadn't caused any allergic reactions, and, most importantly, I calculated that their cost would be within my budget.
I entered the store with my mind fixed on several priority items and an extra or two that might appeal to me. It wasn't long before I began to wonder what I was doing there. I am a sixty-plus woman whose build tends to be on the plump side of normal. I wear sensible shoes and very little make-up. Now, here I was among sales personnel and customers teetering on platform soles, looking so pale and gaunt I wondered if any of them in their short lives had ever so much as tasted a bowl of good hot borscht.
Despite the fragile appearance, one of the young women very competently helped me select a skin freshener that felt oh so fresh, and a cleanser that smelled heavenly. And for an extra spiritual boost, I bought a bottle of green apple shower and bath gel.
For the next few weeks whenever I had a bath, my apartment smelled like an apple orchard caressed by autumn breezes. Soon the whole bottle was used up. I went back for more but alas, they were sold out of the green apple stuff and told me they wouldn't be getting any more. "None at all?" I felt betrayed.
"No, but we do have something new. It's a vanilla gel. would you care to smell it?"
"Yes, I suppose I could," I replied hesitantly. But oh! What I smelled reminded me of Mother's custard cream pie, and summer picnics of my childhood days where they served me home-made ice cream, sometimes scraped off the paddle right into my dish. "Yes" said eagerly, "I'll have your medium-sized bottle of the vanilla."
I set it on the shelf among containers of my apricot shampoo, cocoa butter lotion, and raspberry lip soother. Next day, preparing to shower before a lunch date with the "girls", I took my vanilla potion off the shelf and studied the label. "Indulge in the warm scent of vanilla," it said, "with this all-over cleanser. Formulated with marshmallow root extract..." Ummh, and marshmallows, too. I poured a generous serving on a wash cloth and began to cleanse my body.
It was while I was soaping my armpits that I began to feel there was something wrong with the picture.
To my way of thinking, vanilla is not a perfume. It's a flavor. It belongs on a kitchen shelf next to the lemon and almond extracts. I love it in custard and ice-cream, but I do not like it on my wash cloth. Next time I buy a bath product, I'll be looking for something that reminds me of a garden. And I'll have to be careful to specify that it's a flower garden, not the vegetable patch!