The Seven Week Itch
I cheated on Avon last night.
The first thing you learn when you attempt sales is that you need to know your products, live your products, caress them, spit them out with your words. I knew this, so my first week as an Avon rep I packed a few favorite beauty supplies in a yellow plastic tub and threw away the rest. I put Avon products along my shower and sink and hid the tub full of old memories. I like these Avon things. I like the look of them, and the way they feel against my skin.
But last night, after kid and animal retired, after the graduation party down the street was well under way with the wail of Bob Marley and the reek of cheap beer, I lit an Avon Ginger Scents candle, opened the walnut door beneath my sink, and pulled a small green glass jar from my yellow tub.
I ran a hot bath, as hot as my body can withstand, and I poured the remaining contents from the jar into the water. The smell of clay rose with the steam, and the water took on a murky hue, the color of dust with a sprinkle of salt. I eased myself into the water, shivering from the heat of it, and let the bentonite clay erase the Avon and time from my body.
The clay salts were a relic from an ancient trip to Death Valley, a three day drive through the searing heat in a beat up minivan, escaping from family and friends and failed relationships. At least it feels ancient now, even though it was just last summer. I hiked over red rocks with a wide brim hat, letting the rays of 115 degrees bake out the stress and disappointment. I lay in the bath at home last night thinking of those three days, and how connected to nature I felt when I sat in the hot springs under the stars, naked and alone. This is why I grabbed that bottle and poured the clay instead of Avon, poured that memory to life in this water, poured the hope I could find that connection to those desert stars one more time.
I think of a young lady who, for two full years, lived among the leaves of a beautiful oak tree as a statement against strip forestry. Or the college friend who traveled to Nepal with the Peace Corps and now plants potatoes and cabbages at an organic farm cooperative. You know people like these, too, people whose nature it is to care for nature. I'm selling Avon now, passing out thousands of pages of ground up and pressed fallen trees each week, handing out small squares of plastic filled with God knows what inside.
I love nature; I walking on the beach most days, love to swim, feel the sand squish between my toes. Sometimes I pick up garbage on the street. I once contributed to Green Peace. I never use products tested on animals. I create a litany of my best Mother Earth moments, trying to convince myself that I am alright, I am good. But I can't. I cringe and remember when I've eaten fast food in plastic-coated wrappers and drank fancy coffee out of Styrofoam cups. So many times, so so many times, even though I know in my heart and in my mind it harms our planet.
I'm just a junkyard dog, pure mongrel, a mixed up mix of light and dark, Earth and death. Part of me moves with the inherent intentions of the earth. Part of me lives in the moment, worries about money and looks. I don't know how it all fits together.
1:18:19 PM 
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