Yesterday I went to Walmart and plopped down $12.84 (+ tax) of my hard-earned cash, bubbling over with excitement. This is what happens when I watch TV (two nights ago, approximately one hour).
I pride myself on being impervious to advertisements, but random samplings of evidence (i.e. what I happen to remember at the moment) suggest that I am actually highly suggestible. I have not found myself wondering how my life would be improved by a vacuum-seal food storage device, but have wondered if it would be "fun" to sign up on eHarmony, and—when very tired—have even thought that the CD compilations (Dance Hits of the 80s, Country Western Songs that Tell Stories) might be a helpful supplement to my overall happiness.
But the fatal commercial this time was a lavender-and-white concoction featuring beautiful feet. A voice-over inquired whether I was troubled with stubborn callouses on the sides of my feet as an invisible pen marked Xs along the exact mountainous regions which have obstreperously refused to be pumiced away. (Apparently this can be a rare—read unique and exquisite—form of athlete's foot). In one moment I had been shown the evil that lurked at the bottom of my soles, and in the same instant shown the remedy. Little wonder, then, that I was found, within 24 hours, solemnizing the union with a WalMart checker officiating.
Now that I have the darn thing, I would like to say that the lotion is kind of messy and annoying to apply twice a day for the next two weeks. A spray would have been preferable. And I hope that the cream does not entirely transform my feet into those of the commercial, as it would be awkward to have cartoon feet on a purple background.
