The Girl Who Loves Carmex

Winters in Minnesota can be rough on a person, and I’m not talking about the 25-below zero temperatures, or the glare-ice coated streets or even the eleventy-hundred days in a row that we go without seeing the sun. No, the real problem that we all face from October to April is the almost total lack of humidity in our air. Oh, yeah. Its drier than a popcorn fart around here and it really takes its toll on our furniture, our musical instruments, our skin and our lips.

Especially our poor, tired, chapped lips.

But in our war on dessication we have a powerful ally. A fount of hydration, a magical moisturizer - a balm for the ages.

I’m talking, of course, about Carmex. Carmex. Carmex! Even the name has a lyrical, orgasmic quality as it rolls off my tongue, and sometimes I can’t stop myself from saying it. Over and over. Carmex!! Oh, that was sooo good! Its like a mantra, and often I’ll mutter it continually at night until I fall asleep and dream the dreams of the satiated - my smooth, supple lips smacking in satisfaction.

In Minneapolis, no one knows the way of the small white jar with the yellow lid better than my friend Maralee, who worships the waxy gel. Maybe a little too much, in my opinion. She keeps it in her purse. She has a tube on the night stand by her bed. She has jars stashed in secret locations throughout her house, and she even keeps a container in her mailbox in case she feels parched while fetching her letters. Whenever she goes shopping, she plots her route in such a way that she will never be farther than two miles from a drugstore or Target. Because, as we all know, sometimes those little containers of bliss run out.

And then what the hell do you do?

Panic. That’s what. And today, that’s exactly what’s happening. Look. Across the street, on the corner by the post office, standing under the billboard announcing Cub Foods’ low, low prices on rutabagas. It’s Maralee, frantically digging through her purse, her pockets all turned out, her eyes shot through with desperation. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweating. And, as she keeps licking her lips in a frenetic attempt to stave off the advancing chafe, you can almost hear her inner voice crying out in fear, “Why me? Oh, God, why me! What did I ever do to deserve this?!”

She thrusts the depleted container of moisturizer skyward in one clenched fist and falls to her knees sobbing. Passers-by are starting to avert their eyes and shift to the other side of the street. In Minnesota, its not polite to stare at the less fortunate, and certainly not the ones with chapped lips. We’ve all been there, but that doesn’t mean we want to pick that scab and let it bleed.

Better to ignore. Maybe the Salvation Army can help. Move along - nothing to see here.

And then, when all hope looks lost—when it seems that the dark night of dehydration will wash over the girl and suck the very will to live from her dry and dusty body, a little old lady with a tasteful bag purchased at a Kohl’s 50% off sale walks over and kneels at her side.

“Here, dear,” she offers kindly, “take mine. I have another.”

And she places a small cylinder of Carmex in Maralee’s hand and walks on without looking back.

“So sad,” she whispers to herself. “So sad.”