The only body lotion I buy religiously, when it goes on sale at the drugstore, is Curel. It has to be the unscented one with the green packaging.

No-nonsense. Does a great job. Truly an icon for a dry-skinned babe like me.

Before I turned thirty, I was one hundred percent That Guy™️ who used body lotion on my face, because I was a heathen (by many passionate accounts). To be fair, I never really had any visible pores or wrinkles, and as far as I could tell, the Curel was doing its job to keep my face moisturized. What else did I really need to do? A multi-step skincare routine? As the kids say these days, be so fucking for real.

Except, completely outside of my control, it was like I crossed some kind of unseen, magical barrier after my thirtieth birthday. My usually supple cheeks had new dry patches. I had crow’s feet instead of toes. Panic set in, borne from the distant echo of my mom’s imaginary “told you so”, all the way from the suburbs.

What followed was, I’m sure, a much more mundane version of a movie research montage. I can’t really remember a lot of the details, but it likely involved reviews and tutorials from beauty vloggers, and the occasional random blog post. After that it was just trial and error until I settled on something that didn’t take too much time, wasn’t too complicated, and felt good.

But that’s the thing I’ve come to appreciate most, and didn’t foresee happening: the process of applying skincare feels good - and not just in a surface-level way. (The jokes write themselves, folks! And they have layers.)

Whenever I’d tried to meditate (to gain clarity, or achieve inner peace, or try not to murder an English paper for Classical and Biblical Backgrounds to Modern Literature, et cetera ad infinitum), it always ended in frustration for any number of reasons. My brain wandered. I couldn’t stop the looping background noise of whatever song caught my attention (but only the two lines that are really goddamn catchy). There was a persistent need to tense the muscles in my legs that I tried to ignore, and inevitably couldn’t. Take your pick.

Imagine my surprise when, with wonderful, serendipitous luck, I realized my skincare routine somehow slipped into occupying a similar space.

Maybe it’s the soothing repetition of it all. I know what comes next after each step; muscle memory, but also something like morning soft focus. My knuckles, familiar with the paths to encourage lymphatic fluid to drain, when gliding over cleansing balm. The correct order for essence, serum, eye cream, moisturizer. It all smells vaguely good, either in a natural way or a chemical way, depending on the ingredients and formula. Texture ranges from thick and lush to watery and refreshing. And at the end of it all, the glow is no joke, y’all. Less glazed donut, more dewy river sprite.

My head is usually satisfyingly uncluttered, though not empty. I float through the process, active participant and bystander all at once. Plus - and this is very important - I get to wear a disgustingly cute BT21 headband to keep the hair out of my face. It’s a great time.

So, maybe I can’t sit down in lotus pose and clear my mind to cultivate a peaceful state. It’s just not something my brain or my body are capable of. But, I can take care of my skin and zone out to an approximation of meditation at the same time, which, honestly?

Hell yeah.

From me and my cutie headband, I hope you’re able to find the unexpected thing that gives you space - whatever that space looks like for you.