Fell off the Wagon

Not her. Me.

So! A few months ago, I checked into rehab as the result of a come-to-Jesus meeting that occurred in my basement. Rehab was somewhat successful, and I've been doing really well, even through the holidays. But then something happened, and I slipped. I'm in kind of a shame spiral over it, and the only way I'm going to get back with the program is to be brutally honest about it--here, with you.

Hello, my name is SGM and I am addicted to buying useless crap and then stashing it in my basement when I decide that I don't like it anymore.

Remember those cheap cords that I was going to return to Banana Republic? I returned them (yea! returning is good!) and was walking out when this man at a skin care kiosk (I know, A KIOSK. Does that tell you how sick I still am?) waves me down with a "Honey! Honey, come over here!" I cannot resist an effeminate gay man who will possibly bullshit with me about Britney, so I walk right over even though it is my standard operating procedure to ignore kiosk workers. I think to myself, "Maybe he's selling something good. I'll go listen but I won't buy."

So I walk up to him and the first thing he says to me is "Guess how long I've been here?" I tell him that I didn't know. "Since 9:30! What is that, like 9 hours?" Not quite that long, but you know. I'll sympathize. "I hope you at least own this place" I say, gesturing to the kiosk. And do you know what he says to me? "Oh, girl! No, but I used to sleep with the owner!" and then he gives this kind of grand arm-wave, kind of a "snap!" motion. It enchants me, and without even realizing it, I have set myself up for a relapse.

I'd like to mention at this point, that the kiosk worker has an accent. It is a combination of Israeli and South African (I know, because I asked). The whole effect is very Serge from Beverly Hills Cop, and it is irresistable to me. Roy (that's his name, because I asked) starts in on his spiel, putting his lotions and salts on my wrist. He asks me what my main skin problems are, and I tell him, and then he calls his kiosk colleague over, "Jean Paul! Jean Paul, I need you, please!" Then they stand back and look at me intently and subtly gesture while they discuss me a different language. Then he comes back over and says "you need the Dead Sea mud mask. It will help with your rosacea." Rosacea!? I do not have rosacea! I was just wearing a down coat in a warm mall, plus I was flushed with the embarrassment of gay men examining my aging skin.

I almost walked away at this point. But I don't. Of course I don't. He puts his mineral rich mask on my wrist and starts saying funny things which in turn make me grab his arm and say "I love you." I know, I'm a full-on FREAK, but I am completely out of control at this point. Roy clutches me back and says "Oh honey. Not many people understand me."

Please know that I am totally aware that I am being played. He's a salesman and I'm a customer. I've seen G-String Divas on HBO. I know that the best salespeople feign personal relationships in order to cash in. As he's talking to me, I fully realize that he's camping up the gay for me. But I want to reward his effort and fun-loving nature and somehow make up for his sad kiosk life.

So I decide that I must have the Dead Sea mask that will help with my rosacea. He tells me an outrageous price, a La Mer price (the small jar). Hello! Even I am not that stupid; I kind of do a "bitch, please!" facial expression, and kindly tell him that there's no way I'm paying that kind of money for a kiosk product.

He stares at me for a moment and says in his accented voice "how much are you willing to spend today?" At this point I should have said "Nothing. Good day sir," and walked off, but instead, I say half of the full price because I am a total fucking idiot. He talks to Jean Paul in the foreign language, probably something along the lines of "Oh yeah! I'm gonna make her think she's getting a total deal. Watch this shit." He also does some very convincing tip-tapping on his calculator. He comes back to me and says "come up $6 and it's yours. But you mustn't tell anyone! Not a soul or I will get in big trouble." So of course I come up $6 because we are now co-conspirators as well as BFFs. On my receipt, he writes down his name and his email address and tells me to write him if my rosacea doesn't clear up. But I don't even care. The deal is done. The show is over and I'm already regretting my purchase.

I see him take the mud mask box from the shelf and surreptitiously wipe dust off of it. It still has dust on it when I bring it home and hide it under the sink in the bathroom. I don't even use it for a week, and then when I do, it is not life changing. Shocker. Did I tell you that you remove the mud mask with a little magnet? Yes. The shame.

So yeah. This was a wake-up call. Buying a semi-expensive beauty product at a kiosk for a facial condition that I do not have is the recovering alcoholic's equivalent to waking up naked, in a park, after an all night bender. Time to sober up before I start ordering from the Home Shopping Network.


Does anyone else have this problem? Buying because you like/feel sorry for the salesperson? I thought I'd had this problem beat but certain situations can still get to me. Maybe I need a sponsor. Or, maybe I can be Lindsay Lohan's sober companion and we can keep each other straight. While she pays me $750 a day. Does anyone have her phone number?