I’ve lived in South Florida my entire life, so when I was walking through the Galleria and a beautiful young woman beckoned me calling, ”Sir, Sir?” I was immediately suspicious.
I turned around and instantly realized that she was not after the pleasure of my company but was trying to sell me something. “I am Betina,” she began, “Can I interest you in a free sample?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said in Slovenian, “I don’t speak English.”
Full disclosure: I don’t really speak Slovenian but my mother did, and I picked up several phrases from her that I use to get me out of situations like this. Since I accompany my limited Slovenian with fearsome facial contortions the person I’m trying to avoid generally beats a hasty retreat convinced that I am either a crazy Eastern European man or, not impossibly, suffering from Tourette’s.
But not today. Betina smiled brightly and began to chat in fluent Slovenian while I cursed the fate that introduced me to the one person in South Florida who actually speaks that language. She concluded with what was obviously a question and looked at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” I said with dignity in a mock Slovenian accent, realizing that I sounded like Count Dracula. “I prefer to speak English in my new country.”
“As you like,” said Betina. “I asked if you would be interested in trying a crème to remove those dark circles from under your eyes?”
“What?” I said, completely forgetting my accent.
“This crème can also remove the bags from under your eyes,” she continued smoothly, ignoring my suddenly slack jaw.
I started to walk away. “No thanks,” I said shortly. “No crème is going to help me. I’m old.”
“Sixty-five is not old,” said Betina.
I turned around. ”I’m 54,” I said, stung. Betina did not miss a beat. ”Well you certainly don’t look it,” she said.
I snorted and started to walk away again, but she put out her hand to detain me. “You don’t have to live with crow’s feet,” she said brightly, producing another free sample. “This salve will get rid of them in no time.”
“These are not crow’s feet,” I said. “They are laugh lines and I earned every one of them.”
“Well it looks like you were working overtime,” said Betina snarkily, as though she considered aging to be a bad career move.
Now I was annoyed: It’s bad enough that people can apparently spot my crow’s feet and dark circles from across the Mall, but do they have to mention it? But then as I walked away Betina played her trump card:
“How about a depilatory to remove the hair from your ears?”
That got me. As a child I was revolted by my Uncle Frank, the hairiest man in the world. Each of Uncle Frank’s eyebrows resembled a squirrel’s tail and he could have braided the hair sprouting from each nostril. He also had long, luxurious tufts protruding, lynx-like, from each ear.
By the time I was done shopping I had a basket of crèmes, salves and ointments that Betina guaranteed would make me look decades younger. With dollar signs in her eyes she gave me the total which was slightly higher than my annual property taxes; I opened my wallet and sighed.
“My debit card is in my car,” I said. “Can you hold this stuff for me? I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” said Betina triumphantly. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
Of course I never went back. And I hope Betina is still there, growing old while she waits.