I cried when Rite Aid closed.
And I'm crying as I write this.
When people used to ask me my favorite store, I would say Rite Aid. They’d attempt to clarify, that they had meant Victoria’s Secret or Bath & Bodyworks (of the times), and I’d cut them off to clarify that it was, indeed, Rite Aid (I’d apparently been asked that question enough to anticipate this absolutely clueless reaction). Even before the Duane Reed makeover, Rite Aid always sparkled, albeit similar to Cinderella’s pumpkin before it turned into a chariot kind of way. From my earliest memory, it was profoundly fascinating that one could pick up a prescription and a bottle of nail polish and a bag of skittles and hair scrunching spray (of the times) in one transaction (my dream cart, cute.) And of course, it was the home to one of my first loves, the beauty aisle.
Jean introduced me to the beauty, and the beauty aisle, of Rite Aid at an early age. A canon event, to say the least, and an absolute precursor to my ongoing Sephora VIB Rouge status. Jean was my non-biological grandmother who treated me with the tether of a blood relative, the devotion of a best friend, and the magic of an off-brand fairy godmother (any Cosmo girl knows that off-brand is often made with the same stellar ingredients for half the budget and twice the shoppers high.) I spent most of my time with Jean, from ages 6-14. I use the word life changing a lot (because I strongly believe we are surrounded by seemingly mundane things that withhold a silent beauty powerful enough to change your life if you let it - a perfectly bloomed flower catching a sun ray, the way a stranger takes the time to compliment your outfit, a little dog with a wiggly butt, a cat napping in a windowsill, the pink streams of sunset amidst a greying sky), but going to Rite Aid with Jean actually changed my life. She was soooooo cool, confident despite everything telling her not to be (of the times), and she knew the exact shade and location of her favorite Revlon shimmery pink lipstick by heart (what I would DO to know the name of this shade today.) Just like the first time I saw Cher do an outfit change (you get to pick TWO outfits? MORE? A practice I employ at any given opportunity, and a dream for sweaty fashion girls. I digress.) - my perspective shifted like Pangea.
Now, we’re a Rite Aid family through and through (distinctly different than CVS families, I can’t really explain it but some of you will get it), but it was Jean who taught me the beauty in the slow shop, the meander, taking in almost every aisle even if you only truly needed one thing (a strategy that has likely cost me thousands of dollars and hours of my life, but has also likely enriched me and quelled my nervous system in ways that cannot be properly articulated so you’ll just have to trust me and try it for yourself - especially at Costco). We would walk through the sliding doors with a loose agenda and even looser pockets (max. $10), seeking refuge on a hot summer afternoon. We would arrive, Jean and I, in our matching knock-off keds (from Annie Sez), and promptly take a hard right to the beauty aisle. MAYBELLINE. L’OREAL. REVLON. PHYSICIAN’S FORMULA. ESSIE. OPI.
Jean’s eyes navigated the shelves with both scrutiny and open-mindedness. She had her tried-and-trues but remained diplomatic while perusing her options. She was fair to every shade, considered every bottle of nail polish equally, even though she almost always landed on pink. Pink. Baby pink. Hot pink. Frosted pink (her signature shade). Pinky orange. Orangey pink. Pink-orange. Orange-pink. There are nuances! I was in a chaotic childhood phase of GLITTER. BLUE. PURPLEEEEEE. GREEN!!!!!!! (Was it a phase though?) Jean always encouraged me to explore despite our differing taste (except I totallllly copied her Keds), but not without a life lesson. Walk around with it before you decide, you might change your mind after the impulse has worn off. Make sure it’s not too similar to something you already have (as she placed her 57th pink in her own shopper.) Don’t shop for fun stuff (only necessities) when you’re in a rush. Slow down, enjoy the process. While very few actual makeup tips were given, significant life knowledge was acquired. I committed these lessons to my automatic nervous system and still reap the benefits to this day.
Years after my Jean era (she moved to live closer to her biological children, and passed shortly thereafter, taking a significant piece of my heart with her), I still found myself meandering through Rite Aid. When my mom and I got into a particularly bad fight, when I was bored at home on winter break, when I was jonesing for a shipping high and new makeup inspiration, there I was. Taking deeper and deeper breaths as I gazed down the corridor, I would disassociate between black-brown and blackest-black mascara tubes. My happy place had become my refuge, hosting a number of swelling emotions. Sometimes I’d cry (like I am right now), blobs of tears welling at my lash line, watching the lipstick samples blur into streams of pink, orange, brown. It was a safe space for me, where I could be anonymous enough to release my emotions but also tuned in enough to find hope amidst Dream Matte Mousse and Butter Bronzer. I’d always leave with something (this was back when you could genuinely get an eyeliner for 99 cents - Jean would gasp at today’s prices). Checking out, I always felt the cashier understood my sadness and my story without a word being uttered beyond "how are you, hon?” and “good thanks how are you?", but she was probably just wondering what a teenager was doing buying purple glitter eyeliner and Lindt chocolates at 11pm on a Tuesday.
I’ve always hated nostalgia and avoided it at all costs. Therapy has educated me as to why I do this (part compartmentalization, part grief, part PTSD), but my Rite Aid visits over the years have taught me a lot about the legacy of nostalgia. Jean was still with me in those aisles, alive in my heart, in my curiosity, in my meditation, in my second lap of the aisle even though I had already seen every single product and I was here yesterday. Before she died, I used to call her from the aisle and push past the sadness in both of our voices, two hearts ripped apart by the cost of retirement and aging in this country. I’d tell her about my latest score, and she’d tell me she missed me but the weather was great in Florida (she always hated the winter.) Jean taught me to slow down, to find so much beauty in pigmented chemicals that, unbeknownst to either of us, might possibly give me cancer one day. She paid attention, she saw me and cared about my happiness beyond my survival or my grades or the importance of my future, she wanted to bring me simple joy at any cost (which was often everything she had to her name.) She taught me to be frugal, she showed me how to have fun even when you had to go without, she showed me that the best spa day is exfoliating your legs with sand in the surf at the Jersey shore. Jean made me laugh so hard I lost my breath (and peed my pants one time, but Jean also peed her pants one time so it was fine.) She showed me there is a shade of pink for everything, even when you’re deeply sad. She nurtured my inner child when everyone else expected me to be mature and wise beyond my years, but treated me with the respect of an adult. She encouraged me to be creative at every chance I could - especially with my makeup and clothes - and I credit her for much of my whimsy to this day.
Every time I think about her, I cry. And by the transitive property of equality (one of my favorites), Jean = Rite Aid = Cry. Simple math, really. So yes, I will miss lollygagging under flourescent lighting, agonizing over which mascara wouldn’t flake into my eye. I will miss my Teita’s 20% off coupon that outlasted her own lifetime (another woman who deserves an absolute anthology written about her.) I will miss the linoleum floors that seemed to light up and guide me to everything I didn’t technically need but nourished my soul (and will forever hate the carpet at CVS.) I will miss one of the last places standing that I went with Jean, a place that I felt her love in peaceful silence, broken by giggles and silly gestures and gasps at a perfectly fake mother of pearl claw clip, a place where I last felt whole and not like part of me was ripped out of my chest. I guess I’m glad Rite Aid held on through years of bankruptcy (at least once successfully, once not so successfully), to give me a little more time with Jean. Time I never got to say goodbye, time I wish I had so badly that I still weep about it to this day. But I’m reminded of the legacy of nostalgia, and that I need to embrace it to have her with me. Now that I can’t find her spirit dancing between shimmery Revlon lipsticks, I’ll have to find her elsewhere. Through writing, through creativity, through y2k-coded outfits, through so much glitter, through makeup, through spray tans (Jean LOVED a tan), through the perfect french twist and so much hairspray (Jean’s signature), through a really bizarre but fabulous sweater (Jean’s signature), through romanticizing the smallest beauty of daily life. That butterfly floating around my backyard is definitely Jean. That bowl of pasta I’m eating for breakfast (the sleepover special) is definitely Jean. The pink lip combo of my dreams* is definitely, absolutely, 100% Jean. It’s not just a choice to see the small beauty of life, it’s a necessity for me.
You meant more to me than you’ll ever know, but I’ll carry your legacy in me. Am I talking to my dead grandmother or bankrupt Rite Aid? You’ll never know. XOXO, gossip girl.
*Maybelline Lifter Liner in Line Leader - say that 5x fast + Kylie Cosmetics matte lipstick in shade Kylie + MAC Flesh Pot + a dab of pinky tone concealer + Huda gloss in UUU baby.
