Labels Hurt

Took a little over nighter to the Big Salt Lake City.  It was my darling's birthday.  (I saw a motel called The OverNiter and that really got me going.)  We stayed at my favorite hotel.  Staying at a hotel makes me feel ultra-important in general.  Like I have a story. It's deep and complicated. And traveling is all a part of the aura.
It's kinda like when I was in high school and my choir group would go to to the air port and sing during Christmas time.  (Are you getting the picture of the kind of teen I was.) After we sang for 45 minutes or so we had the rest of the day to spend... at the airport.  Nothing like a day pretending to be on stand by.  My other choir members would eat at the airport restaurants or grab a Cinnabon or buy Cosmo and give each other the twenty quizzes that are in those things. But my favorite thing to do was to get on the moving walkways and pretend I was about to miss my flight.  I'd pass others and gently touch their arm with an urgent "Excuse me" or pass them and pretend to stumble, catch myself, and turn around and wave a "Merry Christmas!"  I'd stare at my (empty) wrist and then pick up my pace.  Ha!  I felt so important.  Staying at a hotel makes me feel that same way.  No one knows my back story.  I'm just a twenty-something, independent traveler.  With mysterious eyes.
 I love going into the bathroom and seeing all the toiletries lined up and the origami towels. There were at least 15 stacked up and then two nice big thick ones on each rack.  They had the washrags shaped as fans and even the toilet paper was folded creatively.  Oh the rapture of staying in a hotel!  I picked up the dainty body of body wash and it read "Cleanse."  I breathed deeper.... yes.... cleanse.  I picked up the lotion "Moisturize."  Another exhale...Mmmmmm....Moisturize!  I picked up the mouthwash "Refresh."  All these brilliantly labeled little bottles were transporting me to another realm of tranquility.  I picked up the bar of soap.  It read:

Clean Your Face.

Zzzzzwwwwzzzzpppp!

Back to reality.  Clean Your Face?  That doesn't sound nice.   It doesn't quite roll off the tongue like cleanse and refresh and moisturize.  When I read it... my mind added to it.  As if the mini bar of soap was talking to me.  "Clean Your Face You Filthy Bum!  Try to look presentable- You're in Public!"  I looked in the mirror.  I wasn't a international traveler with oodles of rupees and mysterious eyes.  (Certainly dancing eyes but in no way mysterious.)  I had Kole on my hip.  He smelled pretty... stale.  And he had drooled a considerable amount on my shoulder.  My hair was frizzy from the rain and half up half down.  My shirt was all stretched out.  My makeup had been rubbed almost totally off.

And I did indeed needed to clean my face. 

I just don't know why I had to be told so bluntly.


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