Skin Tips After 40 Facebook ad: “The Day I Sold Our House”

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My ex-husband came to collect the last box of his things and asked if he could come home. I’d spent a year waiting to hear that. I hadn’t expected him to say it the day I sold our house. He was standing in the kitchen with the last box of his things. I still had the pen from the title company in my purse. For a moment, I thought I’d misunderstood him. “Home?” He set the box down. “With you.” There had been a time when I would have helped him carry that box straight upstairs. I used to imagine hearing his car in the driveway after dinner. The garage door opening. His keys landing in the bowl by the back door. Sometimes I’d leave the kitchen light on until I went to bed. I told myself it was because I didn’t like coming downstairs in the dark. I’m 57. We were married for 29 years. He left on a Sunday, while the towels were in the dryer. I remember that because the dryer kept buzzing while he talked, and eventually I got up to turn it off. When I came back, his bag was beside the door. He said he hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. The woman was 36. I asked him her age twice. As though I might have heard it wrong. He wanted to talk about how unhappy he’d been. I wanted to know whether he’d already told her he was coming. He looked at the floor. That answered it. For a long time afterward, I kept everything where it had been. His reading glasses on the end table. The coat he hadn’t taken. A bottle of the salad dressing only he liked. When it expired, I bought another. I didn’t notice what I was doing until I put it in the same place in the refrigerator. I kept the house in the divorce. Our daughter asked whether I wanted to be responsible for a place that big on my own. I told her I loved the garden. I did love the garden. I also knew he knew his way back. That was the part I didn’t say. He came by occasionally for things he’d left behind. Golf clubs. A file. The Christmas ornaments his mother had given him. I’d know he was coming on Saturday, and by Thursday I’d be thinking about what to wear. I didn’t want to look as though I’d made an effort. I didn’t want him to think I’d stopped making one either. I’d stand in front of the closet with the same two shirts. One had sleeves to my elbows. The other went to my wrists. It could be 85 degrees outside, and those were still the choices. I’d been noticing my skin before he left. The fine creases on my upper arms. The dry look across my chest. The way the skin above my knees folded when I sat down. Afterward, I started looking at those things differently. I knew what 36 looked like. I had photographs. In them, I was holding our daughter, or standing beside him at a cookout, with my arms bare and my hair pulled up. I couldn’t remember ever thinking about my elbows. Now I’d pull my sleeve down before answering the door to a man who’d watched me give birth. He would ask how I was. “Fine.” Then I’d help him find whatever he’d come for. Once, he said he was glad I seemed to be doing okay. I was holding a box of his winter clothes. I nearly told him to put it down. Instead, I said, “Your gloves are in the top.” A little over a year after he left, the upstairs bathroom started leaking. It was fixed in an afternoon. But while the plumber was there, I realized I hadn’t used that bathroom in weeks. I hardly went upstairs except to sleep. I was heating and cleaning rooms I walked through on my way to somewhere else. That evening, I looked at smaller places online. I found a condo with a little covered patio and a kitchen I could see from the front door. I sent it to my daughter before I could talk myself out of it. She called. “When do you want to go look?” She didn’t ask whether I was sure. I was grateful for that. Once I decided to move, every cupboard needed an answer. Keep. Donate. Ask him whether he wanted it. My friend Judy came over on Wednesdays to help. We’d known each other since our kids were little. She could open a drawer in my kitchen without asking where anything was. One afternoon, we got as far as the bathroom cabinet. I had three jars I’d bought because the labels promised firmer-looking skin. One had barely been touched. Judy held it up. “Taking this?” I unscrewed the lid. Smelled it. Made a face. “Apparently not.” She laughed. Then I started crying. It surprised both of us. I sat on the closed toilet while she stood there holding that ridiculous jar. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to look like now,” I said. She waited. I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I know that sounds awful.” “No,” she said. “It sounds like you’ve been sitting with it by yourself.” We stayed in there for a while. At some point, she put the jar down. We ordered sandwiches. The cabinet waited. That night, Judy sent me a link to ForChics Body Oil. “This is the one I use after my shower,” she wrote. “I thought you might like the smell.” I opened it. I was tired of being disappointed by things I’d bought while feeling terrible about myself. So I read it more carefully than I usually would. I wanted something for the dryness that wouldn’t leave me waiting around to get dressed. The lightweight feel appealed to me. So did the sweet almond oil, jojoba, and vitamin E. The scent was vanilla, salted caramel, and pistachio. I could imagine wanting to put that on. There was a 60-day money-back guarantee. I ordered it. When it arrived, I put the box beside the packing tape on the kitchen counter. Then, that night, I took the bottle upstairs. I used a little on my arms and legs after my shower, while my skin was still slightly damp. It spread easily. I smoothed a hand over my shin. Then did it again. I liked the softness. I liked catching the warm scent when I bent to pick up my clothes. I put on a clean nightshirt and went downstairs to finish sorting a drawer. Halfway through, Judy called. “Well?” “I smell very good.” She laughed. I laughed too. It was a small thing to be pleased about. I was pleased anyway. I kept using it. After a few showers, I stopped putting it back in the cabinet with everything else. It stayed beside the sink. My skin felt more comfortable. The dry surface of my arms had a softer look, with a little glow. I still had the lines. But I wasn’t just standing there looking for them anymore. One Wednesday, Judy found a sleeveless blue blouse while we were sorting my closet. I told her it could go in the donation bag. “Does it fit?” “Yes.” “Do you like it?” “Yes.” She held it out. I put it on. Then I started to explain about my arms. She looked at me in the mirror. “Do you still like the shirt?” I looked at the color against my face. “Yeah.” We hung it with the things I was keeping. A couple of weeks later, I wore it to look at the condo again. I’d used the oil after my shower. My arms felt soft, and I liked the way the blouse looked with my jeans. When the agent opened the patio door, I walked straight outside. There was room for my two favorite pots and a chair. I could have coffee out there. I started deciding where things would go. For once, I was thinking about the place I might live instead of the place he’d left. My ex knew I was selling the house. We’d already sorted out what belonged to whom. Still, when he came over to collect a few things from the garage, he seemed surprised by the boxes. “You’re really doing it.” “I am.” I was standing on a little step stool, taking down a curtain rod. He offered to finish it. I handed him the screwdriver. When I stepped down, he looked at me for a second longer than usual. “What?” “Nothing. You look good.” I said thank you. Then I bent to find the bag with the curtain brackets. Usually, a compliment from him would have kept me awake that night. I would have replayed it until it meant more than he’d actually said. That evening, I was trying to decide whether my kitchen table would fit in the condo. I sent my daughter the measurements. She told me to stop worrying. Then she called to make sure I hadn’t measured the chairs too. Over the next few weeks, he started finding reasons to call. Had I found movers? Did I need help with the patio furniture? Did I remember the name of the restaurant we’d gone to for our twentieth anniversary? I remembered. I also wondered why he was asking. He sent me a picture of our daughter at about 8, wearing his enormous fishing hat. “Found this in the office stuff.” I saved it. I didn’t sit down and go through every photograph from that summer. There were still days when I wanted to. But there were other things happening now. A neighbor at the condo invited me over to see what she’d done with the same floor plan. Judy wanted to know where we were ordering takeout on moving night. I bought two yellow bath towels because I liked them. I hadn’t asked anybody else which color they preferred. On the morning I signed the closing papers, I wore the blue blouse. I put the oil on after my shower. Fastened my earrings. Checked that I had my license. The buyers were getting the keys on Monday. I had the weekend to finish moving. When I got home, I put the folder from the closing on the counter. Then I texted my ex. “Your last box is ready.” He came over a little after four. There were pale rectangles on the living room walls where the pictures had been. He stood looking at one. “Feels strange.” “I know.” He followed me into the kitchen. I pointed to his box. He picked it up, then set it down again. “You smell nice.” “Thank you.” “Is that new?” “Something Judy recommended.” He nodded. I reached for the roll of tape. That was when he asked whether it was too late to come home. At first, I looked toward the folder on the counter. He’d known about the sale for weeks. Then he said, “With you.” I put the tape down. “What about her?” “We’re not together anymore.” “How long?” “A few months.” I thought about all the calls. The picture of our daughter. The curtain rod. “I should have told you,” he said. “Yes.” He looked tired. He also looked like the man I’d spent most of my adult life loving. Both things were true while he stood in my kitchen. “I miss you,” he said. “I want us back.” I had imagined being angry when I finally heard that. Or relieved. I hadn’t imagined needing a minute. He took a step toward me. I stayed where I was. “Mark, I’m moving on Saturday.” “I know. I’m not asking you to cancel it.” I looked at his box between us. “What are you asking?” “Whether we could try again.” For months, I would have said yes before he finished the question. Now I could picture Saturday. Judy arriving with coffee. My daughter complaining that I’d packed the scissors. The yellow towels in the new bathroom. I wanted to get there. “I don’t know,” I said. He waited. “I need to think about whether I want that.” The words came out quietly. He nodded. For once, I didn’t rush to say something that would make the silence easier for him. Eventually, he picked up the box. At the door, he took the house key off his ring. I held out my hand. He put it in my palm. After he left, I stood in the kitchen for a while. Then I called Judy. She listened. “What did you say?” I told her. She was quiet for a moment. “Are we still getting Thai food Saturday?” “Yes.” “Good. I’ve been thinking about it all week.” I laughed. Then I cried a little. Then I went back to packing. The oil went into the overnight bag with my toothbrush and clean clothes. I wanted to know where it was when I got there. I still use ForChics Body Oil after my showers. I like the way my arms feel when I pull a shirt on. I like the warm scent. I like reaching for something because I enjoy it, instead of because I’ve found another thing wrong with myself. My skin still looks like my skin. I’m still 57. But the blue blouse is hanging in my new closet. And when I get dressed, I’m thinking about where I’m going. If you’ve ever changed your shirt three times because someone who used to love you was coming to collect a box, you might understand what that means to me. 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. On Monday, I left the old house keys in the bowl by the back door, just as the agent had asked. Then I picked up the key to my new place. I had somewhere to be.

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forchics.com

The Day I Sold Our House

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.