A Romantic Chunk of Wax Dinner

Candles are meant to be burned.   When it's not dark there's no need for them because according to several dictionary definitions (and me) candles are burned to give light.  During the day they're on deck waiting to shine later.

An unburned candle is just a piece of wax.  And if you have no intention of burning it, why not buy a little sculpture of a frog that doesn't have a wick coming out of it's head or a colored vase for flowers that might reflect in the sunlight instead of a cylindrical piece of wax?  

I have a friend that had the same two tapers in her candlesticks for more than a year.  In the summer they got so hot from the sun shining through the window that they melted.  I liked them better that way.  It seemed like they'd been burned a little.
`
The three candles I gave an Italian friend as a hostess gift were still sitting on her shelf several weeks later in the same way they'd been presented---a small glass with a blue handmade candle in it and two red tapers tied to the side with twine, all worth about 75 cents.  When I asked why she hadn't burned them she said she wants to keep them as a gift.  This is the mom of an 8-year old girl that comes for English lessons and at the end of every lesson we toast marshmallows on candles at my kitchen table.  I thought my gift might inspire the same activity at home, but apparently at her house candles aren't meant to be burned.

Things that are shapes and figures shouldn't be candles.  I received a gold, glittery Christmas tree candle this year which I lit right away.  After a few minutes it was a tree with a big hole in the top and gold glitter oozing down its sides, but I enjoyed the temporary glow a lot more than a gold tree with an unlit wick where the star should have been.  My red, white and blue stars for the 4th of July didn't have a point (no pun intended) after the first few minutes.  I've had fish that turned into jellyfish, an Easter bunny that went deaf and mini-apples that became applesauce.  All of these little disasters make me think the dictionary definitions are right.

Collins:   a candle is a stick of hard wax with a piece of string called a wick through the middle.
You light the wick in order to give a steady flame that provides light.
MacMillan:  a stick of wax with a string in it that you burn to give light.
Oxford:  a cylinder block of wax with a central wick which is lit to produce light as it burns.
Dictionary.com:  a long, usually slender piece of tallow or wax with an embedded wick that is burned to give light.

These are chunks of wax that I don't consider candles.
They're the leftover applesauce, bunny legs and fish lips
that didn't burn.  They're waiting to be melted, molded and
wicked to shine again one day.

But then there's Merriam-Webster:  a usually molded or dipped mass of wax or tallow containing a wick that MAY BE burned (as to give light, heat or scent for celebration o votive purposes).

So according to Webster it MAY BE burned but it doesn't have to be.  Fortunately, my favorite dictionaries have always been Oxford.  Candles have a purpose and if you take away their purpose they just sit there doing nothing.  Isn't it better to shine and live a little than just sit there doing nothing?

Stick People Families on the Move

Stick people families have just started moving to Italy.  They look just like the American families, but their names all end with vowels.  A lot of them ride around in SUVs, just like in America. I guess I should mention that SUVs haven't been around all that long either.  Ten years ago the biggest cars in Italy were station wagons.  And now that Americans are finally wising up and getting Smart cars, Italians are buying SUVs.

A lot of Americans think of Italy as a place of fashion and style and firsts.  That might be true in Milan, but does anyone (in America or Italy) really wear the clothes from Milan runways?  As for my little town in northern Italy I find it far from fashion forward.  For example, finding an interesting pair of shoes means a trip to Paris or Serbia or Berlin. One day I was googling my favorite brand and discovered that they were sold in my town, so I ran (in my running shoes) to the store.  They only had a few styles and it was the end of winter, so I asked when they'd be getting the spring line.  They said they wouldn't be carrying them anymore because the styles are too avant-garde for people in Bassano.  Imagine!  German shoes that I bought in Brussels in 2008 are too avant-garde in Veneto in 2017.

Speaking of shoes, I'd like to address the stereotype about Americans and their sneakers.  I think even guidebooks used to say that if you didn't want to stick out like a real tourist in Italy you shouldn't bring your tennis shoes.  I'm not sure if they've edited that page, but it's no longer true.  The only thing I don't see around here are white aerobics shoes, but anything else that falls under the heading of gym shoes exists.  They even have some dress shoes hidden in a sneaker design that cost 300euro.

So who's following who?

Fixed gear bikes.  I'm not sure that's what they're called or what it means, but I remember this new trend in Chicago nearly ten years ago.  Now it's here.

Gray, brown, black and stainless interior design.  It looks just the same here in 2017 that it did there in 2010.

Wedding invitations with raffia and rice paper.  Nothing new.

How much longer do I have to wait for the good stuff to start showing up?  Stuff like free refills, an aisle of salad dressing, hardware stores open on Saturday afternoon and Sunday (isn't that when we really need them?), travel mugs, heat in cafes, over-the-counter cold medicine and frequent flyer miles?
 
I wonder why the stick people have decided to move here and if they'll miss that stuff as much as I do.  Maybe they're coming to Italy to get away from Trump.  It's a shame no one told them about Berlusconi---one of the few things Italy had first.

Brown Paper Packages

Brown paper packages tied up with strings are one of my favorite things.  I don't remember when it started, but it was so long ago that the only brown paper I could find was in the section with the postal supplies and I usually bought it at Woolworths.  I'm not sure why I started using it, but I imagine it's because it was a lot cheaper than the decorated stuff.  In those days you couldn't find brown wrapping paper next to the Christmas rolls with reindeer and snowmen.

I've always loved wrapping presents. As soon as I figured out there was no Santa Claus, I started to help my mom wrap.  I got so good at it that one time when I was home alone and sulking I unwrapped all of the presents under the tree and then rewrapped them.  I kept it secret until I was sulking another time and yelled to the family, "And just so you all know, in 1979 I unwrapped all of the Christmas presents and rewrapped them.  So there."

My gifts never have tape and there are never knots in the bows.  When my niece and nephew saw someone struggling to open one they used to say, "It's a Tenley present.  You just have to untie the bow and the whole package will open."

Several years ago when other brown gifts started showing up, I decided to adorn mine with polka dots and letters cut from scraps of Japanese paper lying around my studio.  I'm not going to give up on the brown because, like everything else, it will go out of style again one day.  Recently I've strayed a bit and sometimes use the brown paper placemats my friends don't soil when we go out for pizza or the rolls of off-white wallpaper I've found in my attic.

This holiday season was anything but brown paper packages tied up with strings.  (Other than the 77 that I wrapped.)  Almost all of the gifts I received were in bags.  Little bags, big bags, cloth bags, paper bags and cellophane bags.  What happened to good old candycane Christmas wrap and a pre-stapled bow on a small sticky square that never really sticks to the present?  I can remember coming back from the mall with the rolls of wrapping paper and a bag of un-sticky bows.  The tubes floated around in the shopping bag with all of their weight at one end and there was the constant order from Mom not to crush the bows in the bottom.

Fortunately a few of my favorite things in Italy come wrapped.  The grocer wraps the parmigiano, the pastry chef wraps the tray of sweets and the gelato guy wraps the ice cream when you get it to-go.  Here getting ice cream to-go doesn't mean walking away from the gelateria with a cone or cup.  It means spending more than 20 euros on a little styrofoam tray filled with 16 scoops.  I like to watch them wrap my little treats.  They hold the paper tight in the middle, make creases at the corners of both ends and then fold them in to make the triangle flap just like I do (but they use tape).

Even if my birthdays and Christmases in Italy are filled with opening bags instead of unwrapping presents, I'm hopeful that as commonplace as well-aged parmigiano, mini-tiramisu and gelato have become in my life, they'll always seem like little gifts.
 


Every day is a gift if you live in the present.   --Tenley Ysseldyke (maybe)

(Can I take credit for this quote?  As I walked away from writing this piece I said it to myself out loud.  I didn't think I'd heard it before so I googled it.  I found, Every day is a gift.  That's why they call it the present.  But I didn't find mine and I like it.)
 

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme to Grate the Nutmeg

I wouldn't consider the simple life all that simple.  My neighbors seem to pull it off like nothing, but for me it's a lot of work.  I suppose it's kind of like shabby chic.  Shabby doesn't take much effort to achieve.  It's just a matter of time, and all things become shabby.   But striving to look like you made no effort at all (shabby chic) takes a little extra time.


Life in a small country town in Italy follows a few of the Oxford Dictionary's definitons of simple.
--easily understood or done; presenting no difficulty
--plain, basic or uncomplicated in form, nature or design
--composed of a single element
--of very low intelligence
--basic or plain without anything extra or unnecessary


Although some are true (I won't tell you which ones), life is far from easily done and presenting no difficulty.   A simple life is a little bit like most people that have never lived one think it is...the quaint, sweet, charming part.  But one thing it isn't is simple.


I heat my country house with a wood-burning stove.  In early summer a big truck comes and drops a huge pile of wood in my yard.  Three days, 72 mosquito bites and 13 slivers later it's systematically stacked.  When winter comes you have to go out every day rain or shine to systematically restack it in the house.  You light a fire every morning and you stoke it all day.  If you're not home all day, you re-enter a cold house and rebuild the fire.  Turning up the heat seems a little simpler. 


I also heat my beach house with wood.  There's no big truck to deliver it because the house is on an island.  There's never a huge pile because the wood gets collected on the beach a little bit at a time every winter weekend.  Then it gets rolled back to the house in a metal shopping cart I found in my attic. Quaint, sweet, and charming yes.  Simple?  Not so.


And here's the dirty laundry on laundry in Italy.  It starts with a weather check.  If I wash a load now is it going to be sunny long enough for the clothes to dry outside?  Clothes are washed in a regular old American-style washer. Simple.  Then each piece is taken out of the washer, flung a couple of times to get some of the wrinkles out, and hung on a drying rack in perfect order.  The t-shirts go here, the underpants go there and the pairs of socks get paired and hung next to each other.  Next you add the clothespins for fear of the colpo d'aria (hit of air http://10leaves.blogspot.it/2013/10/living-with-bunch-of-old-wives.html) and the rack full of heavy, wet clothes is awkwardly carried outside.  When it's dry it's carried back inside and the clothespins are removed.  Then the wrinkled clothes are removed, folded and organized in a pile in the corner until ironing day (which usually comes after you've accumulated a few loads).  Italian women iron more than just pants and shirts.  I suppose some American women do, too, but I'm not one of them.  T-shirts, sheets, hankies, dish towels and tablecloths are all as smooth as silk (which is really the only thing worth handwashing and putting on the drying rack).  Passing a load from the washer to the dryer, taking it out and flinging it a few times to get the final wrinkles out seems a little simpler.


Washing lettuce isn't on my list of favorite things to do.  And washing it a thousand times?  When my farmer friends offer me fresh lettuce from their fields I refuse.  It takes at least 15 minutes to really clean it.  I know.....you have to wash lettuce from the supermarket, too, but somehow the fact that it's already been in a store makes it seem like it has a cleaner start.  The farmers' stuff is filled with the same dirt I clean from the treads of my shoes after a run through the fields.  But how green, how bio (Italian for organic) how wonderful to grow your own food.  Not for this Chicagoan. It only takes two seconds to cut off the top of a bag.


And the prep for that head of lettuce?  I'm friends with the early morning and early evening bus driver that becomes a farmer at midday.  Last summer I found him in a big field picking weeds.  Not in a little garden in his backyard.  That's doable.  (Not for me, but for many.)  Antonio was in a real field-sized field picking weeds by hand.  I stopped in shock. "Stai scherzando?" I asked.  (Are you kidding?)  He said that instead of powders and sprays, he's the weed killer.  When I asked him if he was really going to walk up and down every row of what seemed like four football fields, he asked me if I was really going to run 10 more kilometers to get home. 


That got me thinking about all of the things I do instead of SIMPLY going to IKEA.  (And I can speak with authority now because I've been to one in Italy.  Once.  It's even got guys directing traffic in the parking lot just like I imagine they do in Schaumburg.)  IKEA sells dishrags and they're only a buck.  So why do I knit my own?  Good question.  And making new candles from the remnants of old ones?  I know they don't always burn that well, but there's some strange satisfaction in watching something that I created glow.  Just like the farmers that find satisfaction in watching something that they planted grow, I suppose.  (And I must admit.  I've received IKEA candles as gifts and they make great gifts.) 


Once again I'll be celebrating Thanksgiving with a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.  I've gotten over the fact that there's no Campbell's around here and I've learned how to make my own.  It's pretty simple.  And a real grilled cheese with bakery-bread instead of plastic bag-bread and three different kinds of cheese instead of the stuff you peel from the little plastic sheet is pretty good.  But I still miss pumpkin pie.  I know it can't be that hard to make a pie crust (Ritz is in the same cemetery as Campbell's) but I've been avoiding it.  Fortunately I don't have to buy a pumpkin and learn how to turn it into Libby's 100% Pure Pumpkin because a friend sent me a can last year.  The most difficult part of my Thanksgiving prep will be grating my nutmeg.  

Instead of finding a little jar of ground nutmeg at my local market I found a small cellophane envelope with two nuts and a tiny little grater.  It reminded me of the prize in a box of cereal. Grating my nutmeg will probably take as long as cooking your turkey.      

And I guess now is when I'm supposed to say that I'm thankful for the simple life, which is defined by the MacMillan Dictionary as a way of living without all the possessions and worries of modern life.  I must say, the coagulated reddish-orange mass that plops out of the Campbell's can never worried me all that much.  Speaking of which, enjoy your cranberry sauce.   

Losing Control

For a control freak, there are times that having no control at all is just what I need.  My discomfort and panic come from not being in control when I think I should be.

Let's take a dinner party at my house.  It's impossible to remain calm and charming if the guests arrive 22 minutes early.   And when they present me with dessert that I've asked them not to bring?  Lovely hostesses graciously accept it thinking, "the more time together and the more to eat, the better."  Instead, I think, "How could you possibly come early and why would you bring something that I asked you not to bring?"  That being thought (the truth is it's actually also been said) I'm not such a lovely hostess if my rules aren't followed.

There were two times in my life when having absolutely no control gave me peace.  The first was a 6-day journey on the Trans-Siberian Express.  Making the choices before the trip were agonizing because I could control them all.  When should I leave?  How far should I go?  What kind of food should I bring?  Should I take the top bunk or the bottom one?  But the moment I boarded, the moment that I totally lost control of my life for 6 days, I was at ease.  There were no decisions to make.  I couldn't control anything.  I could only get an ice cream cone when the train made one of its three, 20-minute daily stops.  If the stops were at 6am, 2pm and 3am there was nothing to think about.  I got the cone at 2pm and it was okay.  (Not to say that I've never eaten ice cream at 6am or 3am.)      

To be polite, I followed my roommates' schedules for everything else.  I ate when they ate and I went to bed when they went to bed.  I was decisionless and it felt like a real vacation.  Being trapped on a train for 6 days meant freedom.  I had nothing to do but knit, braid the hair of the little girl that was travelling with her grandpa and play poker with the Russian soldiers in the next cabin.  When we went over a bridge, everyone got up and looked out the window.  There weren't many bridges and the guidebook didn't talk about them so I didn't have to decide which ones I wanted to see. I looked when the others looked because it was the only choice I had.

I took my watch off.  It didn't really matter what time it was.  The passengers that had boarded where I had were on my time schedule, but those that had boarded earlier or later in the journey were totally different. I think I crossed five time zones in six days.  In the Moscow time zone I'd left behind maybe I really was eating the ice cream cone at 3am.  But it didn't matter.  I was out of control and it felt good.  If only the Trans-Siberian weren't express.

My second favorite holiday lasted 45 days.  I spent it on my couch with a broken knee.  Much like being trapped on the Trans-Siberian, being trapped on the sofa meant freedom.  I couldn't control anything because the broken knee controlled me. Getting a little chubby was acceptable because it wasn't my fault.  I wasn't disappointed in myself for not running a certain amount of miles each week because I couldn't run.  It didn't mean I was lazy if I read all day, it meant that I didn't have a choice.  And all of these things felt good.

I read three books in Italian after having lived in Italy for only three months.  A miracle. Reading in Italian four years later, I lose my patience.  I can't concentrate because I keep thinking that I should be doing something more productive, so I quit.  Now that I'm back in control I miss the freedom of being confined to my sofa.

Today's tea bag quote:
  Let things come to you.
That's not so easy for a control freak.  But I'll try.

I know it shouldn't take a broken knee or a trip to Siberia to feel free. Most people read as much as they want to read when they want to read and run as far as they want to run when they want to run.  They've set no limits and created no logs.

Maybe instead of being in control and losing myself I should start losing control and being myself.

Less is More

If my mom heard me say that I've never liked wearing clothes with labels, she'd clear her throat.  In high school my loafers had to be Weejuns, my polos had to be Izod and my pants had to be Dickies.  Not long after, my boat shoes had to be Topsiders (not Docksiders), my polos had to be Ralph Lauren and my jeans had to be Guess.  And then for some reason I changed my mind.  I decided it was cooler to have bermudas with daisies and a long, wool MSU band coat that could only be found at the Salvation Army, Goodwill and garage sales.

I'll admit, I like knowing that my Clark's are Clark's.  It's kind of hard to distinguish real from fake, but I know they're originals (no pun intended, for those of you that know what real Clark's are) and that's all that matters.  I do it for myself, not for everyone else.  And I especially like knowing that my Ray-Bans are Ray-Bans, because I'm sure I'm the only one that knows.  

I noticed the other day that in addition to Ray-Ban being written on the lens of one of my student's sunglasses, it was also written on the right stem.  And if I'm not mistaken, it was on the left stem, too.  After his lesson, I went to check my Ray-Ban drawer.   I haven't bought a pair for more than 15 years, but in my small collection (of  9) none of them boldly display the logo more than once.  And the Wayfarers don't show it at all.  "Wayfarer" is stamped on the inside of the stem.  If I were to wear them with my student he'd think they were fakes.  And that would be okay with me.

Contrary to my high school phase of flaunting designer labels I find it rather embarrassing now.  And if I don't want to be seen with a little pony on my breast you can bet I don't want to be seeing from a pair of sunglasses seemingly dipped in Ray-Ban.

Who decided one insignia wasn't enough?  Was there a Ray-Ban executive talking to someone on his left that remembered the logo was on the right and thought, "Wait a minute!  This guy isn't going to know these are Ray-Bans if I don't get him to come to my other side."  Is that when they started the triple dipping?

The Cambridge Dictionary defines insignia as "an object or mark that shows that a person belongs to a particular organization or group, or has a particular rank."  I want to be a member of a group so exclusive that only those of us who are in it know that we're in it.  We can recognize each other without an insignia.  A group where we're all so embarrassed by our 300 dollar logo-less shoes that we only want to be recognized by the other people crazy enough to spend that much on a pair of shoes that doesn't scream their name.  We can call ourselves The Hidden Label Club.  And the best part is, I can be a member without renouncing my membership to the Daisy Bermuda Club.

If you've got it, flaunt it. If you don't, just smile.

Cream.  Lotion.  Lipstick.  Waxing.  Fingernails.  Toenails.  Hair.  Stilettos.  Make-up.   Cellulite solutions.  Breast enhancements.  Tummy tucks.  Eyebrows.  Push-up bras.  Facials.  If I'm aware of this many feminine fixations, it means that real women are aware of a whole lot more.  

It's finally hot in Italy, so the other day I left home a bit less covered than usual.  My skirt was shorter, my neckline was lower and I didn't have sleeves.  This got me so much attention I thought maybe I'd put my shirt on backwards and the v was exposing my belly button.  I even looked down to double check that I was wearing a skirt, but everything was in place.

It started when I crossed in front of a car on my bike.  I saw that it was the owner of the bar where I've been parking lately, so I smiled.  Every time I've locked my bike there I've wondered if it bothered him, so pulling up to the spot while he was still in sight made me a bit uncomfortable.  Then he said something that I didn't understand.  After two "Scusi, non ho capitos", I went to his window.  He repeated for the third time that he hoped having a beautiful woman pass in front of him and smile would be a sign of good luck for the rest of the day.  (I guess I can stop worrying about my new parking spot.)

That's when I realized that I have nothing to flaunt but my smile.  My bra size is 34A.  The only thing smaller is 32A.  The 34 part just means I'm a little girthier than I used to be.  I don't use lotion or foundation or wrinkle cream.  I wash my face with a bar of Ivory soap and if I run out I dig around in my junk drawer until I find a little bar wrapped in plastic that I brought home from some cheap hotel.  I use the same three beauty products at 51 that I used at 15--the pink and green brand of mascara, a little plastic case of blush that breaks the first time you drop it and lip stuff.  The only other thing I do to enhance my beauty is run.  So what I save on make-up I spend on running shoes.

One of my students is a cute, 28-year old blonde.  She's recently started going to the gym which led to a fresh new topic for her English lesson.  I was surprised to hear that she wears knee-length leggings and a short-sleeved t-shirt in the un-airconditioned gym in June.  Her reason is that she doesn't like the men in the gym to look at her, which led to the next question.  Didn't she think working out was going to make her look even better (in and out of the gym) which would garner even more unwanted attention?  She agreed that it might be true, but claimed that she's only working out to look better for herself and no one else.

That's when I started asking other women about their motives for beautification.  All of them told me that they do it for themselves.  And I told all of them that I don't think they're telling the truth.  I'll be the first (and maybe only) to admit that though I don't do much, the little that I do is for more than my eyes only.  I find it hard to believe that Cosmo and Elle readers go to the lengths they do with no hopes of being noticed.

Let's talk waxing.  In Italy,  I don't have any friends that don't wax their legs.  And it seems that age 16 isn't too early to start.   I know what it feels like right when you leave the esthetician's (a word I didn't know until I moved to Italy) because I've been demanded by friends to touch their legs.  They feel as smooth as a chubby baby's leg.  (And if you don't have a chubby baby around, just touch the fatty part of the palm of your hand.)  But give it a week (I'll be generous and say 10 days) and the thrill is gone.  And after two and a half weeks it's time to start wearing pants again, even if it's 90 degrees.  Whenever I see a well-groomed women dressed in pants on a hot summer day I know she's in between expensive waxings.

When I suggest shaving every day and wearing summer clothes whenever you want to they all say, "But when you shave, the hair grows back dark and thick."  To which I reply, "If you shave every day, you never know how it grows back."  Sometimes I even reach the 36-hour mark and it's not as smooth as it was right after shaving, but at least I don't have to overdress for the next 12 days waiting to see my estetista.  And one lesson they all seem to learn at Italian beauty school is that fuzzy legs should be hidden and fuzzy armpits exposed.

Then there's the expensive electric muscle builder.  Apparently you just plug it in and it works (so you don't have to).  When I went for physical therapy after I broke my leg the therapist attached little pads to my thigh and then attached my little thigh (after 40 days in a cast it was a little thigh) to a machine and left the room.  He said that if  it was too uncomfortable I could call him.  It was a little electric shock to stimulate muscle growth.  I asked if I could please just do more squats.  He said that if Italian women thought that way a lot of companies would go out of business. I find it hard to believe that women suffer these small doses of shock just for themselves with no hopes of an outside compliment.

Maybe I lost my stomach for beauty when I was a contestant in the 1982 Miss United Teenager Pageant.  I loved my turquoise taffeta dress with puffy sleeves and the floor-length lacy white one. When I gave my speech on "What My Country Means to Me" I wore a knee-length red skirt and a white ruffled shirt with a little blue vest.  Fortunately there was no swimsuit competition because at that time I was probably still too small for the 32A.  I made it to the top 15 finalists and then I had a meltdown backstage.  Someone was coming around with Vaseline to rub on your gums.  As it was my first pageant I was unaware of the tricks of a real beauty queen.  A swab of Vaseline on your gums gives you a permanent smile.  That's when I lost my enthusiasm.  What was I doing in a group of girls that couldn't just smile a natural smile when it was the right time to smile?  Needless to say, I wasn't Miss United Teenager that year.

My father-in-law used to say that a chubby, bikini-clad girl on the beach was more attractive than a skinny one that put her shorts on to take a walk.  Put a smile on the chubby one and she definitely takes the cake.
 
Girls are so busy hiding behind emoticons on their smart phones that they forget to look up and smile.  Someone needs to send them a message that it's the cheapest and most effective beauty product on the market.  

The End


The author wishes to express a few beauty truths that didn't come out in this piece.  
1.  She colors her hair because when her sick friend went to try on wigs she played along and tried a blond one.  It brightened her cheeks so much she could almost stop spending money on the little breakable case of blush.  So, she went blond and always asks the hairdresser to leave a piece of gray in the front to show who she really is.
2.  She's gone from Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers to a long-lasting lipstick by Revlon.  It costs 12 euro which is the most expensive beauty purchase on her list.  She has recently discovered it's also the best sunblock for lips she's ever used and therefore justifies the price.
3. Having been struck by a board nearly 20 years ago she found herself lying flat on her stomach below a crew of onlooking construction workers shouting, "Don't move!" from the second storey.  Her only response was, "I imagine this is a pretty good view of my cellulite."   A week later she bought an expensive cellulite cream by Clarin's.  According to her and many others, it worked.  She didn't believe anything cured cellulite, but the product tightened the skin and made it seem more like ricotta than cottage cheese.  The problem was, should she apply it before her morning run to look better while running and then wash it all away in the shower?  Or after the run to look better on the beach for a few minutes until it washed away in the lake?  In the end she decided she preferred the cellulite to the additional gray hair and wrinkles incurred by the stress of deciding the best time to use an expensive beauty product.