Eye Eye, Captain

Figure I was twelve years old the first time I casually picked up a Cosmopolitan (the magazine, not the drink. That happened much earlier. Badum bum.) and where I can't say that I've been an avid reader ever since, I can say that I've surely read my share of chick mags; picking up a near arsenal of tidbits regarding beauty and fashion advice, without even trying. Marie Claire, Allure, Jane before it died, I even receive mysterious mailings of Glamour and Lucky though I've never requested or paid for them. Anyway, yeah, I've read 'em all. And I bet you have, too.

Dutifully, I follow the rules established by ...those who determine the rules. Every morning I cleanse with famous dermatologist-developed facial soaps that clean without stripping skin's protective lipids. I follow with exfoliation lotions and moisturizer to lock in freshness and keep skin young and resilient. At night, I repeat with organic make-up removers and non-clogging formulations guaranteed to do dozens of fantastic things to poor, stressed, aging dermii (both epi and edi), while you sleep. Convenient pumps dispense just the right amount to ensure the supple, radiant sheen of the bottom of your wallet.

Now please do imagine my surprise upon learning from a physician that my eyelids were, "filthy". Immediately after said declaration he pushed off, rolling quickly away from me in his half-squatting eye-doctor scooter chair. Such shame! He even made a scrunched up, disgusted face. Apparently I have neglected my eyelid hygiene to the point that it was a fertile and "ripe ground for infection". Wow.

Gross? Yes, gross. But... eyelid hygiene? Who had ever heard of this?? Clearly not me and my newly diagnosed double "epidemic" pink-eye. What we have here, lady and gentleman, is a clear cut case of neglect. Not neglect on my part, no, neglect on the part of every Cosmopolitan-esque magazine over the last several decades! Where were they on this one? Too busy churning out yet another article on "How To Make His Dinner in Stilettos", no doubt.

Before prescribing me a plethora of drops and goos with which to battle my fertile peri-oribital garden, Dr. ScrunchFace gave me a lesson in eyelid hygeine (oh no, allow me, Glamour, you had your chance: we are to run our faces under hot water {eyes closed, duh} while in the shower, and wash lids fervently with baby shampoo. Daily).

This led to a trip to Target, the closest and most likely place, it seemed, to score some baby shampoo while getting scripts filled. Okay, that's the plan, Target. Two birds, one stone. Then I fall into bed. It's a good plan. Do you see "pick up secondary bacterial infection" anywhere on this agenda? Yeah well I didn't see it advertised on the aisles of Target either, but nonetheless, it came home with me.

Gross.