My late grandmother, Yvonne Nuhrah, was an Avon lady extraordinaire. She perfected what we kids and grandkids dubbed “the Avon walk.” Though standing only a bit over 5 feet tall, when she started around the neighborhood with any of us in tow, her feet seemed to take on a Roadrunner whirling blur, leaving us energetic youth struggling to keep up with her. I was fairly certain she could hand out a thousand books per 10 minutes, though perhaps my youthful estimate on that were a bit skewed.
Little did I dream that one day I would marry, and that my lovely wife Dana would choose, in addition to her duties as church secretary, to follow in my grandmother’s whirling footsteps.
And so for the last few years, I have been married to an Avon lady. Much has changed through the years. There was no such thing as the internet in my grandmother’s Avon days, but now, my wife explains, she does more business online than in person. And all of that “Avony stuff” would be well and good, except for the fact that she obviously sees in me a desperate face in need of professional help.
My first hint that things were going to be different was when she began to notice lines forming under my eyes. She, of course, had just the product to fix that. And, skeptical though I was, after a few weeks I had to begrudgingly admit that it worked. But it did not end there.
“Those spots near your temples are being caused by sun exposure,” she said with certainty. “Start using this blahbiddityblah (my word for it, since I cannot remember all of the big names) and it will protect you from that.”