CHENNAI: I used to touch everything. Clementines in the supermarket, wrought-iron railings of stairwells, a stationary carousel. I touched things because I felt like it, like running my hands through the fur of a tiny, shaggy puppy on my floor named Rocco. A few drastic changes later, I now find myself thinking before placing my hands anywhere. Do I really need to touch that doorknob? Can I check the expiration date on the block of cheese without touching it? Can I do a completely contactless delivery instead of handing money over? Everyone turns to different things for solace, for comfort, and I don’t begrudge anyone a bit of happiness right now.
If there is something that can offer you an escape, make the air in your home feel momentarily fresher, indulge in it. This is not a time for judgement, but endless compassion and empathy. Though I must say, if the “something” you have chosen to deliver your moment of escapism is “a puzzle” I regret to inform you that you have chosen an interminable chore befitting only those souls awash in the fires of Hades, being punished for their heinous crimes and profound malice. Look, I understand the desire to buy a puzzle. I, myself, was once tricked into the possibility of a puzzle.
It took about five seconds after dumping the contents of the box for me to realise: a puzzle is an unpaid internship, a chore — which benefits nobody. A thousand pieces of a picture that you have already seen. It is plainly ridiculous and that is no fault of mine. This activity sticks out like a lone burnt bulb in a string of perfectly fine Christmas lights, nestled between little delights like sourdough starters, Netflix marathons and a prayer. Any extra touching feels unnecessary, and over the last week my resolve to make this time the most moisturised my skin has ever been changed. Super soft skin didn’t feel urgent. Though while cleaning out some old beauty shelves, I came across Lush’s Full of Grace serum.
On its own, it’s a solid bar of moisturising serum, a mixture of topical butters and chamomile. It melts into a smooth liquid lotion with touch and the heat of your skin. Of late, I’ve liked the slight effort of using this almost like a massage stone. Gliding it over my hunched shoulders and down my stiff arms; a moment to reset. Soft skin isn’t really on the hierarchy of needs. This new ritual only reminded me that it feels nice to touch yourself. That it’s good to try to take a few extra deep breaths, and that these aren’t normal times. Beauty for most of us now might mean to take care of others, but it’s a pleasant cue to take care of yourself a little, too. Yes, even if that means a puzzle — I’ll get over it.
SAUMYA R CHAWLA @pixie.secrets