The Back Always Wins

A Skincare Session, a Goof, and a Lesson in Negotiations

My sister called a week or so ago; she needed a few skincare items. I love my sister — and she’s my best client — so of course I wanted to help. I just had to wait until my back said it was willing to participate. At this stage of life, my back is less a body part and more a union rep. Nothing gets approved without negotiations.

I make natural skincare products — small batch, by hand. Over the years, my sister has cheered me through all my business pivots: custom-made products on demand (until my back staged its first strike), then small-batch runs when I had the strength, and now, following what analytics claim the public wants. My sister, of course, still wants her specialty formulas. So when she calls, I wait for the go-ahead from my back and enlist my son for the heavy lifting.

We started with her moisturizers — the day and night versions both use the same base, so I mixed a double batch and split it.

“Back, are you with me?” I asked.

“Still here. A-OK,” he said, like the easygoing guy who always sounds helpful before he drops the hammer later.

On to the serum. Flawless.

“Still okay?” I asked.

“Yep, no problem,” he said, as if to reassure me this was going to be one of those rare days when the body actually cooperates.

Then came the mask. The Dry Phase went fine. The Wet Phase? A disaster. I dumped in way too much of the first ingredients — the kind of mistake you make once and then dream about forever. Luckily, I’d mixed them in a separate container, so instead of crying into the aloe vera, I shoved the whole mess aside like a casserole that curdled at a church potluck and started over.

“Is it lunchtime?” I asked myself. “Because my head thinks it’s starving.

”It was. I finished the mask, had lunch, and felt smugly back on track.

But when I checked the moisturizers, they had separated. The skincare equivalent of a divorce.

Then I remembered the goof I’d shoved aside earlier. Curiosity is a powerful thing, and mine has caused at least three questionable haircuts and a failed attempt at sourdough starter. I dragged the container back and whipped it. And — miracle! It fluffed into something that looked exactly like whipped cream. Okay, frozen Cool Whip, but I’m telling the story, so let’s stick with whipped cream.

“This will be great,” I thought, as though I’d just discovered penicillin. I scooped a third of the goof into a clean container, added the separating day moisturizer, and whipped them together. Magic. Perfect texture, silky finish. Saved by a mistake. Naturally, I did the same with the night cream.

In my excitement, I forgot to keep checking in with my back. Big mistake. He waited until I was nearly finished before making his announcement:

“Hey, did you forget about me? Time to quit.”

“I’m nearly done,” I said, which is the lie women have told their bodies since the beginning of time.

A few minutes later, he returned, louder:

“You said nearly. I say done. Now.”

I begged for five more minutes.

“You don’t have five minutes,” he shot back.

As usual, I thought he was being hyperbolic.

As usual, he wasn’t.

So I finished the night cream, and my back finished me. I spent the evening walking like a ninety-year-old actor in a low-budget historical film, bent nearly into a pretzel, one shoulder pitched up like a hump. Maybe I was auditioning for King Richard.

Moral: the back always wins the argument. Stop arguing with it.

Author’s Note:

I first wrote this story in a straightforward, lightly humorous style. Then I asked AI to reimagine it in the blended voices of Nora Ephron and Dave Barry — wry, witty, and a little absurd.