This Skin Is Made For Walkin’

Michelle Momper

I recently received a high-dollar, fancy-pants bottle of body lotion for my birthday. It made me swoon. The white, velvety substance was laced with spearmint, eucalyptus, and probably 14-karat gold. So I did what any self-respecting woman would do . . . I gingerly placed it in my cabinet, saving it for a special occasion.

A few days later, my legs went on strike. It was a particularly cold snap, and suddenly my dry skin rallied in protest. “Scratch me or die,” my left shin said. I found a post-it note on my right hip that said, “Scaly Skin On Strike.”

So I opened my cabinet, and as if an angel descended into my bathroom and stroked a harp, my decadent lotion was surrounded by a golden light and I heard a powerful voice say, “Use me, NOW!”

I lathered, I messaged, I indulged my lower limbs in the hydrating substance as if my life depended on it. When the ritual was complete, I lovingly cloaked myself in my favorite set of polka-dot pajamas and went to bed. I should have known something was amiss when my husband said, “Why do you reek?”

The next morning, my legs revolted. I woke up to the same sensation I once experienced in college, after passing out on a beach from too many Mai Tais. My skin was on fire. My ankles throbbed, my knees screamed, and I knew it was really bad. I literally had to peel my pajamas off my legs, and my eyes bulged with complete horror. My thighs were the color of fresh-boiled lobster, and were swollen like the Goodyear blimp. Sweet heavens, what have I done?

My immediate reaction was to run and find the Benadryl. Of course, all my allergy tonics were playing hide-and-seek with my Hydrocortisone Creams, so I couldn’t find anything except aloe vera spray. I applied at least three layers, and suffered agonizing pain. My calves threatened to sue.

For two days I endured the torture, as I shuffled around my house in imitation of Frankenstein. I couldn’t bend my legs, and all I could moan was, “Me hurt. Ouch. Don’t touch!”

On the second night, I’d had enough. My legs were threatening to walk out on me. As I dialed the number for my allergist’s hotline, I picked up the evil lotion to read the ingredients, sure that it was the diabolical spearmint that had thrown me into this epidermis nightmare.

That’s when I read it. The Label. And two little words made it all become very clear: Foaming Bath. It got worse, as I continued in disbelief. “Add one capful to your warm bath for a relaxing, calming experience.”

It was then that my thighs dialed Protective Services. And in a complete state of shock, my mind tried to grasp the concept of poisoning one’s own skin. I’m sure it’s a misdemeanor in some states.

For now, I can tell you that I have wiped out my personal stash of allergy meds, I have painstakingly reviewed every container of beauty products in my possession, and I know exactly what each of their purposes are for. I’m quite sure I won’t ever make that mistake again. My legs are very thankful.