I cannot for the life of me take vitamins on a regular basis. I don’t know what part of my personality rebels at the idea. Maybe it’s the pill swallowing. Maybe it’s the commitment. Maybe it’s the fact that the bottles sit there like tiny nutritional overlords, staring at me, judging me. But I simply cannot do it.
People who take vitamins daily for years, who go to the gym faithfully, who work out religiously – I use to say they “annoyed” me. That’s not the truth. The truth is I’m in awe of them. I admire their discipline. I admire their consistency. I admire that they can do things I have never once managed to do without losing interest halfway through.
The other day my husband walked into the house with the mail and tossed a small package onto my lap. I looked at him questionably.
“It’s got your name is on it,” he said.
I opened it. The label simply said JOINT.
I looked up at him again. “Really?”
He blinked. “Really what? I didn’t order it.”
“Well, neither did I,” I said – and then the devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear… Liar.
Not remember ordering that JOINT supplement is concerning, because I already have Glucosamine/Chondroitin, Turmeric (with Bio Perine – for better absorption), Magnesium, Calcium, Vit. D, Omega-3, a multivitamin, Collagen, and probably 3 or 4 more I can’t recall – sitting on my kitchen counter like a tiny pharmacy I refuse to patronize.
They stare at me every morning, afternoon and evening. And I stare right back. Not today, Satan.
My pattern is predictable: I take them for a week or two – maybe a month if I’m feeling virtuous, and then I stop as abruptly as I started. If I miss a day or two, I feel they aren’t going to work now, so what’s the point? It’s like my body says, “We tried. We hated it. We’re done.”
Apparently I saw no mountain-moving benefits. No hair suddenly thick enough to star in a shampoo commercial. No joints that felt “lubricated.” No burst of energy that made me want to reorganize the pantry. Nothing. Not even a placebo sparkle.
Since I’ve spent all this money on these little bottles of broken promises, I thought maybe I just needed to make it fun somehow.
Enter: the colorful pillbox. A rainbow of tiny compartments. A cheerful little grid of responsibility.
I filled it with my morning, afternoon, and nighttime pills, and honestly? It was delightful. I felt organized. I felt adult. I felt like the kind of woman who has a seasonal pantry, a signature scent and a junk drawer that actually closes without a struggle.
That lasted exactly one week.
And I know it was exactly one week because then the pillbox was empty. Suddenly, the fun was over. Filling those little cubbies again felt like punishment. A chore. I looked at that empty pillbox like, How dare you require maintenance.
Taking pills three times a day, made me feel like I was always reaching for something. There was always a little voice whispering, You’re forgetting something.
So much for my ingenious idea to bring joy to pill-popping.
Let’s move on from what we put into our bodies, to what we put on our bodies.
If you really want to feel unhinged, count how many products you use just on your hair. I did. Seven total. Shampoo, conditioner, hydrator, a serum that promises shine, less breakage and possibly immortality, styling gel and a heat protectant. And those are all before we even dry our hair.
Then we take our freshly moisturized, carefully nourished strands and blast them with a blow dryer, hot enough to melt plastic. And because that’s not enough, we clamp them in a curling iron heated to over 300 degrees like we’re searing steak. But don’t worry – we spritz on a heat protectant, so obviously everything is fine. The bottle says so.
Once the hair is curled, we shellac it with hairspray because after all that work, we’re not letting wind or humidity win.
And that’s just the head.
In the shower: body wash infused with eucalyptus, bergamot, and 26 ingredients that sound like they were mixed in a wizard’s cauldron. Out of the shower: lotions, oils, creams, balms, potions and the newest craze: beef tallow. If it promises “radiance,” we’re buying it.
Then we notice thinning hair. Oh no. Time for research. And now, for the rest of my days, or until I’m on to the next beauty product, Facebook will show me nothing but thinning hair products. And so, I order a hair serum and a supplement. But one dare not stop these products, because your hair will go right back to where it all started. Now, that’s marketing. And while there may be some truth to it, don’t tell me marketing doesn’t play a huge role.
Then there’s the skincare industry. Built on promises of reversing time, lifting jowls, erasing wrinkles, and firming turkey necks. We are a society of hopeful, determined consumers who refuse to go down without at least trying a peptide.
It would be so much easier to accept thinning hair and aging skin. But where’s the challenge in that?
We are undoubtedly a society that puts youth at the forefront, and the beauty industry knows it. Anything that promises to fight aging, shrink something, plump something, or prevent our brains from turning into mashed potatoes shows up on our doorstep courtesy of Amazon Prime.
At some point, you realize the only thing truly getting younger is the delivery truck driver.
Time for a toast: To aging with humor, to beauty with boundaries, and to the supplements we’ll remember to take eventually. To the lotions, potions, pills and promises. And may whatever we’re doing be just enough to keep everything from falling off, falling out, or falling apart.
Cheers.
