Skin Tips After 40 Facebook ad: “Six Unanswered Messages”

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My ex-husband’s girlfriend thought I was trying to get him back. She called to tell me to leave him alone. I had six unanswered messages from him and a pair of reading glasses to find. She introduced herself as though I might not know who she was. “Hi. It’s Lauren.” I turned the burner down under my soup. Then I waited. “I don’t want this to be unpleasant.” There was a little pause. “But you need to stop calling David.” I looked at the phone. “I’m sorry?” “He’s trying to be kind. I think you’re making that difficult.” I put her on speaker and opened his messages. My reading glasses were upstairs. For once, I was glad I needed a minute before I could answer somebody. I’m 58. David and I were married for 30 years. When he left, I asked him to stay. I’m not going to make myself sound more dignified than I was. I followed him into the bedroom while he packed. I asked whether we could talk to someone. I asked what she had that I didn’t. I hated myself for asking that last question before he even answered. He said it wasn’t about that. Then he went to live with a woman 20 years younger than me. For months, my phone went everywhere I went. Kitchen counter. Bathroom sink. Beside the bed, with the sound turned all the way up. If it lit up while I was washing dishes, I’d dry one finger on my shirt so I could see who it was. Usually, it was a delivery update. Or my sister asking whether I’d eaten. When it was David, I answered quickly. Too quickly. Did I have the number for the man who fixed the fence? Had I seen his passport? Could I send him the recipe for the chicken our son liked? I typed that recipe out while sitting at the kitchen table. I included the part about letting it rest before cutting it. Then I stared at what I’d sent. I knew perfectly well who would be eating it with him. I still added, “Hope it turns out.” That’s difficult to admit. But that was where I was. I thought being easy to talk to might make him remember something. I thought if he kept needing little things from me, eventually he might need me. Meanwhile, I was doing something else I didn’t tell anyone about. Looking at photographs of her. Not every day. Often enough that her name started appearing as soon as I typed the first letter. She wore little tops with thin straps. In one picture, she was leaning against him with her arm around his waist. I enlarged it. Looked at her shoulder. Then I put the phone down and looked at mine. I’d been bothered by the dry, finely creased skin on my arms before the divorce. Afterward, I started studying it. The bathroom light. The bedroom window. The reflection in the car when I was waiting for a store to open. I could find an unkind angle anywhere. I’d catch the skin across my chest in the mirror and pull my robe closed. I stopped wearing the sleeveless tops I liked. Not because David was there to see me. He wasn’t. I was still dressing as though I might have to stand beside her. My sister, Ellen, noticed. We went out for lunch one afternoon, and I kept tugging at a sleeve that was already covering my arm. She asked whether I was cold. “No.” “Then why don’t you take that off?” I looked down at my cardigan. “I’m fine.” She let it go. Later, in the parking lot, she hugged me longer than usual. That nearly undid me. I could tolerate being told I looked good. Being held by somebody who knew I wasn’t doing well was harder. A few weeks later, Ellen asked me to spend a weekend at her place. We went to the garden center. Bought too many things for her patio. Made dinner with the back door open. On Sunday morning, I came out of the shower and reached for the lotion I’d packed. Almost nothing came out. I unscrewed the pump and scraped some off the tube. It was something I’d bought for my face originally and stopped liking. I’d been using the rest on my body because I didn’t want to waste it. Ellen knocked to ask whether I wanted coffee. I opened the door with the bottle in my hand. “Do you have anything I could use?” She came back with her ForChics Body Oil. “Try a little while your skin’s still damp.” I smoothed it over my arms. Then my shins. It spread much more easily than what I’d brought. I bent to rub it around my ankles and caught the warm scent. “What is that?” “The oil.” I smelled my arm. Vanilla. Something sweet and warm underneath it. I kept running a hand over the place I’d just put it. Ellen was leaning against the doorframe. “Well?” “I like it.” “Then stop scraping things out of bottles you don’t.” She went to get the coffee. I laughed. Then I used a little more on my other leg. Before I went home, I took a picture of the bottle. That evening, I looked up ForChics Body Oil. I read about the sweet almond oil, jojoba, and vitamin E. The scent had vanilla, salted caramel, and pistachio. I liked that it felt lightweight. I’d been able to get dressed without that sticky feeling I disliked. The 60-day money-back guarantee made ordering my own easier. When it arrived, I put it beside the shower. I started using it on my arms and legs while my skin was still a little damp. Some evenings, I smoothed it across the dry skin above my neckline too. My skin felt softer. More comfortable. I liked the moisturized look of my arms when the light reached them. The lines were still there. But there was something pleasant to notice as well. I’d sit on the edge of the bed to get dressed, catch the scent, and take a little more time choosing what to put on. I stopped automatically reaching for the things with the longest sleeves. I also started leaving my phone in the kitchen while I showered. There wasn’t one morning when everything suddenly felt better. Some nights were still awful. But I began having evenings that weren’t organized around whether David might need something. Then our son turned 30. He booked dinner at a restaurant and invited both of us. I asked who else was coming. He listed his wife, her parents, a few friends, and David’s sister. Then he said, “Dad’s coming on his own.” I felt embarrassed that he knew why I’d asked. “Okay, honey.” “I want you there, Mom.” “I’ll be there.” That afternoon, I laid two outfits on the bed. The first was what I would have worn six months earlier. Loose. Long sleeves. Nothing I’d have to think about. The other had a square neckline and left my arms bare. I put that one on. Looked in the mirror. Turned a little. My skin had a soft sheen from the oil I’d used after my shower. I could see the texture. I could also see the earrings Ellen had given me, and a color I liked against my face. I went downstairs before I could start changing. David was already at the table when I arrived. He stood up. For a second, I thought he was moving his chair to let somebody pass. Then he said my name. “Hi.” “Hi.” He looked at me. “You look really nice.” “Thank you.” Our son came around the table and hugged me. I sat beside his wife. She wanted to show me a picture of a bathroom they were thinking about renovating. I leaned closer to her phone. A few minutes later, I realized I hadn’t looked over to see whether David was still watching me. During dinner, he asked whether I still went walking on Saturdays. Sometimes, I said. Who with? “Usually Ellen.” His sister glanced at him. Then at me. Then she asked somebody to pass the bread. When the cake came, I reached across the table for a plate. I didn’t stop to pull something over my arm first. I was busy trying to get our son to make a wish before his friends started arguing about the candles. Afterward, David followed me toward the door. “It was good seeing you.” “You too.” “Could we do this again sometime?” I looked back toward the table. “What, dinner?” “Just us.” His sister came up behind him with her coat. Neither of us said anything for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” I said. In the car, I sat with my hands on the steering wheel. I knew what that invitation would have done to me a year earlier. I would have called Ellen before I’d started the engine. This time, I drove home. Washed my face. Went to bed. His first message came the next morning. “You looked beautiful last night.” I said thank you. Then he asked about dinner again. I told him I wasn’t ready for that. He sent a picture from a vacation we’d taken years earlier. A song we used to listen to. A message asking whether I was awake. I read them. Sometimes I put the phone down and picked it up again. I still knew exactly how it felt to want him. That hadn’t disappeared just because I’d worn something pretty to dinner. But I wanted an answer to a question he kept avoiding. “What about Lauren?” He said things were complicated. I told him I wasn’t having dinner with him while he was living with her. Then I stopped answering. Six more messages arrived over the next few days. The last one came just before her call. By the time I came back downstairs with my glasses, she was still talking. “He told me you’ve been having a hard time since the birthday dinner.” I stood beside the stove. “Did he?” “He doesn’t want to hurt you again.” I took the spoon out of the soup and laid it on a plate. “What else did he say?” “That you’ve been calling. Asking to see him.” I scrolled up. Found the message I wanted. “Lauren, I’m going to read you something he sent me.” She went quiet. I could hear a television in the background. “‘I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Saturday. Let me take you to dinner. Just us.’” I read it once. Then I told her when he’d sent it. She asked me to repeat the date. I did. “He said you asked him.” “No.” “And that he told you it wasn’t a good idea.” “No.” My hand was shaking a little. I rested it on the counter. “What did you say back?” I read that too. “‘What about Lauren?’” For a while, she didn’t say anything. Then she asked whether I could send her the messages. “Yes.” I took the screenshots while she waited. His invitation. My question. His answer. The part where I told him I wasn’t meeting him. I sent those together. She asked whether there was anything else. I looked at the six messages underneath them. “Yes.” I sent those too. One of them said he missed waking up beside me. Another asked whether he could come over. The television went quiet. I’d imagined talking to her before. Usually in the shower, where I could say everything correctly and she had no good answer. I’d imagined feeling pleased if she ever sounded the way I had. Hearing her ask those questions was different. I knew how carefully she was listening. Looking for a date that didn’t fit. A word that might change what the message meant. I’d done it myself. “Have you seen him since the dinner?” she asked. “No.” “Has he been to the house?” “No.” She breathed out. I turned the burner off. “I didn’t call you to fight,” she said. “I know.” She said she needed to go. Then, very quietly, “I’m sorry I called you like this.” We hung up. I stood there looking at the screen. The soup had caught a little at the bottom. I stirred it anyway. A few minutes later, David called. I let it ring. Then came a message. “Why would you send her those?” I read it twice. Not, “I’m sorry.” Not, “I shouldn’t have told her that.” I started typing a long answer. How dare he. After everything. How could he still expect me to help him explain himself. Then I deleted it. I wrote, “She asked whether I was contacting you. I answered her.” He said he wanted to explain. I told him any messages from now on needed to be about the family. Then I called Ellen. She answered with, “What’s happened?” I told her everything. She was quiet until I got to the part about his dinner invitation. Then she said, “He told her YOU asked?” “Yes.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I laughed. I hadn’t expected to. We talked until the soup was cool enough to eat. Later, I went upstairs and took a shower. I used the oil. Smoothed it over my arms. Put on a clean nightshirt. My phone was still downstairs. I remembered it when I was already getting into bed. I left it there. I still use ForChics Body Oil. I like my skin feeling soft when I get dressed. I like the lightweight feel and the warm scent. I like seeing my bare arms without immediately thinking about somebody else’s. I’m still 58. My skin has lines and folds. But I’m enjoying taking care of it again. And the next morning, when I got dressed to meet Ellen for breakfast, I didn’t wonder what David would think of what I was wearing. If you’ve ever spent more time looking at another woman’s photographs than enjoying your own life, you might understand why that feels like something worth keeping. I’ve put the ForChics link below. They’re currently doing buy 1, get 1 free, so you get 2 bottles for $39.95, with free shipping and a 60-day money-back guarantee. Tap the link below to see ForChics Body Oil and the current offer. At breakfast, Ellen asked where my phone was. I looked beside my plate. Then in my purse. “I think I left it charging.” She passed me the menu. We ordered.

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Six Unanswered Messages

ForChics Body Oil Arousal works on two layers at once — six skincare oils transform your skin from the inside out, while a pheromone-infused gourmand scent makes you the woman he can't stop reaching for.