There was a Native American lady who worked at the DMV in Carlsbad, who probably still does, who was there when I went in with my mother to get my driver's license at age 16. While I was waiting, she caught me scrubbing my eyes with my hands.
"No, no, honey! Don't rub your eyes like that!" she said. I stopped touching my face and she continued, "Don't ever rub your eyes because you'll have bags like me when you're older." She did have bags--dark, spotty sagging ones. Though, she wasn't ugly. I waited for my mother to respond. She looked on towards the front of the line, but I watched the muscles in her face become tense. I told the Native American lady I wouldn't scrub my eyes.
But I still scrub my eyes. I can't decide if it's because I don't believe my eyes will sag. Maybe I know they will sag anyway and I'm willing to sacrifice some borrowed time for the comfort of scrubbing. Maybe it's because my mother didn't acknowledge her. I don't know why I scrub my eyes, but ever since that day, when I do, I feel a little guilty and I see that woman's face in my mind.
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