Fletch nodded. He was listening but his eyes were glued to the screen. The great irony is that whenever he can’t pick something, he ends up watching Super Troopers.
Every. Damn. Time. That movie is his crack.
“When we’re finally done, we’re already late for the ceremony because no one expected Asian Ansel Adams to have to frame the perfect shot first and we’re all trying to pack into one Volkswagen like a bunch of circus clowns. Then we scramble out, falling over each other because there’s a bee trapped in there. The whole scene is chaos. Neighbors are watching. And in the middle of it, my Noni turns to the Japanese mom and goes, ‘Hello, dear, are you from around here?’ like the three days of non-English-speaking togetherness didn’t register. No one thinks this is odd except for me. I keep saying, ‘Something isn’t right with Noni,’ and no one believes me. At the time, they thought I was being bratty, like I was a troublemaker.”
“This was the grandmother who had Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes.”
He frowned at me. “You say that’s the funny part?”
“In retrospect, not so much. Really, it’s more of an example of how no one ever listened to me.”
“I’ll stop the presses.”
Fletch kept tabbing through the listings while I reminisced about our exchange student. He flipped past a bathroom renovation show and that brought forth another memory. “We used to hear weird noise coming from his room.”
“Weird, how? Like unholy?”
“Like, crazy-loud bangs and kapows and crashes.”
Fletch glanced over at me. “Was he fighting the Joker on the Adam West version of Batman? Were the floors suddenly tilted at a forty-five-degree angle?”
I replied, “Construction noises. We had no idea what was going on, but it sounded like he was building something in there. Turns out, he’d been sawing a hole in the closet wall between his room and the bathtub. Then he poked out all the grout between the tile so he could spy.”
“A Porky’s scenario?”
[For those too young, too old, or too discerning to have seen Porky’s, the male students in this film drilled through the wall of the women’s locker room to watch the ladies shower.]
“Exactly. I didn’t piece together what he’d done until years and years later, but once I did, I felt kind of violated, you know? That’s why I rarely like his Facebook posts.”
“Social media purgatory, the ultimate punishment.”
“I’m not mad. He was just a kid, too. I’m sure he’s mortified now. Still, it’s disconcerting.”
Fletch shrugged. “Somewhat, but I’ll give him a A-plus for ingenuity. Kids today don’t appreciate how easy it is to see anyone naked now. This is our generation’s version of walking five miles uphill in snow to get to school. They’re just a search term away from every perversion you ever hoped to imagine. Porn took effort back in our day, and if you did see boobs, damn it, you appreciated them.”
“That wasn’t the takeaway I expected you to have,” I said. “Anyway, you’ll love this bit – my mother fixed the grout with toothpaste.”
Fletch made a pained face at this. I loved that it was the shoddy craftsmanship portion of the story that caused the grimace and not the peeping.
I continued. “That means I never told you her response, either. She goes, ‘Please, Jennifer, he wasn’t looking at you. I’m sure he did it so he could watch me.’”
He snortled again. “No.”
“Oh, yes. What teen wouldn’t prefer stretch marks and a hysterectomy scar over hot jailbait? This is back before gravity was a factor, by the way. Samantha Baker had nothing on me; I embodied perky.”
He ran his hand over his beard, as he always does when trying to wrap his mind around something. “Holy shit.”
“Right?”
Fletch was quiet for a long time, before finally saying, “The upside here is that’s a completely new story.”
He returned his focus to the television and continued to read every single listing for all nine million channels… at least until he figured out which network was running Super Troopers.
As he endlessly tabbed, I thought about that era. Back then, I was subject to unrelenting pressure about my appearance, particularly from my hyper-competitive mother, although my father would occasionally chime in, too. “My God, Jennifer, you’re getting fat,” was his go-to phrase, even though I was five foot seven and approximately one hundred and twenty pounds, about the same dimensions as your typical Miss America contestant. My being imperfect was the one topic on which they could agree.
Nothing fucked up there.
My hair, my face, my figure – all were ripe topics for conversation and prime sources of criticism. There were so many expectations on how I should look, on standards of beauty by which I should abide, yet I wasn’t supported with any resources. No one helped me find ways to look my best. Instead, they took pride in me when I pulled it all together and punished me when I didn’t. Case in point, the summer after my freshman year of college where I was forced to lose two pounds a week or be grounded.
Grounded.
In college.
For having gained the Freshmen Ten.
My errors were gleefully cataloged when I went awry. “That does nothing for you,” was one of my mother’s go-to phrases whenever I made what she considered a poor choice.
Until I worked with a therapist, I assumed other families operated the same way as mine, that every parent was obsessed with their kid’s appearance. That they all demanded credit for their children’s successes, regardless of how hands-off they might have been in the events leading up to it. I figured everyone’s folks left their offspring to fend for themselves, disciplining them when they got it wrong. And when that inevitably would happen, the norm was to bring up the incident again and again, never allowing those children to forget their mistakes because, “That’s what builds character.”
I couldn’t even fathom the notion of “helicopter parenting,” as I had no clue people could be so unconditionally invested in their children. My God, my father wouldn’t even have a conversation with me, unless we were talking about himself. That’s why I’m so obsessed when I see moms and dads really being there for their kids; I never realized that was an option.
That’s why my goal growing up was to figure out how to be “the good one,” how to be as faultless as I could, as thin and pretty and meticulous as possible, a rule follower and a hard worker with the kind of grades that would keep me under everyone’s radar so I wouldn’t be the butt of family jokes, so that I could avoid being bullied by those whose only obligation was to love me without condition.
I guess it’s no wonder that I finally declared my liberation by getting fat.
When I did finally start shaking off the extra pounds, I did it for me. In all the years I’ve been with Fletch, he’s never once commented about my weight. He wouldn’t even reply to questions on whether certain pants made my ass look big.
[Because he is smart.]
With the help of my emotional eating counselor, I developed a healthy relationship with food, and, subsequently, my weight. But I guess some of what was drilled into me as a kid hasn’t been as easy to shed as the weight. While I’m a lot better with my body, I have become fixated on my face, specifically with holding back the ravages of time.
What I’ve learned is that fat is the fountain of youth. Cheeseburgers are better than botulism when it comes to plumping fine lines. And while losing weight is the best thing I could do for my health, it blows goats when it comes to appearing younger.
My skin looked amazing after the first thirty pounds. My turkey-wattle disappeared and I was starting to see a tiny bit of definition on my jawline. My head was demonstrably less potato-shaped, but none of the little lines had made an appearance yet.
I looked fresh.
To say I was satisfied with myself and my progress at that time would be an understatement. When raised in a house with those who are impossible to please, with thos
e who continue to move the goal line, you develop coping methods if you want to stay sane.
You must become your own cheerleader.
You figure out how to self-soothe with positive affirmations. If you don’t, food can be a dangerous but attractive alternative. A donut can give you the kind of hug from inside that celery just can’t muster.
Cake loves you unconditionally.
For a long time, I used a layer of fat to buffer myself from the rest of the world. Once I let go of what had been keeping me down, the weight came off and a more genuine type of confidence returned.
Around this time of perfect anti-aging stasis, Fletch and I were visiting the poppy installation at the Tower of London. Artists had crafted 888,246 ceramic flowers, meant to commemorate each British life lost during World War I. The exhibit, called Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red, filled the moat around the Tower with what resembled a river of blood. I was incredibly moved by the gravity of the scene, and the extent to which the Brits honored their heroes. However, there was a tiny, vain part of me delighting in realizing that my bold lipstick choice – a color I was too timid to wear when I was heavier – matched the poppies perfectly.
[I know, I know.]
Fletch captured this moment on film. In the shot, I’m grinning like a goddamned lunatic and there’s an elderly British woman to my right, casting an almost unfathomable amount of side-eye in my direction. The worst part is, while I totally deserved her scorn, I still love the photo.
After we returned home, and as I continued to work on my health and fitness, my face began to deflate. The loss of that collagen was horribly aging. While I felt terrific, I looked haunted and hollow and gaunt.
The paradox here is I’m fine with my age and happy to tell people how old I am. I have one friend who has lied for so long that she’s not even sure exactly how old she is. She literally must look on her driver’s license. Although, I’ve had to do that, too. I’m always whatever age I’ve turned for the first three months after my birthday and beyond that, I round up. I forgot that I wasn’t already forty-eight and I was thrilled to receive a bonus year of life on my last birthday.
The wrinkles, though? Not a fan. I wanted my outsides to match the way I felt inside.
And that was finally about to happen, because if free, I sure as hell was going to take.
I’ve done light maintenance by way of injectable and filler over the past few years, never to the extent of a Real Housewife, though. That’s not because I think those ladies look plastic; rather, it’s that Maureen refuses to over-fill, no matter how much I beg. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if I trended a bit blow-up doll.
When I went in for an appointment after the first fifty pounds, Maureen explained all the different, non-surgical ways we could fix the damage. As budget’s always a factor and if I wanted to stay married, I couldn’t fork over an amount equivalent to college tuition.
For a minute, I considered what would happened if I didn’t want to stay married, imagining a world in which all my old stories were new again. Then I’d probably have to set up an online dating profile and I literally cannot memorize one more single password, I am at capacity. Plus, I hated the idea of losing at Catch Phrase, so the thought was fleeting.
Instead of replacing the flat tire that was my face, I’d simply retread it with Botox and some filler around my eyes. While an improvement, I didn’t look as fresh as medical science would allow and folks had stopped carding me at the grocery store. That which was kind of a bummer. The sign says they ask for ID if they think the customer is less than forty, so I felt sad when buying my High Life with over-forty abandon.
Fletch and I had to consult with Maureen before the event so she could make sure she had the right products on hand. Knowing that the cosmecutical companies were supplying the syringes and that we’d be doing the practice a favor by being thorough, I went in with a laundry list.
We’d start by eradicating the lines on my forehead. When not immobilized and I’m able to make expressions, such as surprise, I feel that this area resembles a package of hot dogs, each furrow in a tidy stack on top of another, a veritable tower o’ wieners. Clearly, it needed work.
Next up, crows’ feet. I am anti-any portion of my body resembling an animal part. [See also: Bulldog Jowls, Cat Bunghole Lips.] We’d then travel slightly south and plump up my cheekbones with mid-face filler. The benefit here is: (A) new cheekbones where I never had them before, and, (B) Juvederm Voluma acts as a winch, hoisting up everything below. Goodbye, flabby chin skin, hello, getting carded at the grocery store again!
Every time you see a celebrity and think, “They’ve had work done – bad work,” it’s because they filled up lost volume in the apples of their cheek, instead of over their orbital bone. Rookie mistake. Always fill the sides, not the front.
Next up, we’d replenish the deep wells in my tear trough, which is the under-eye area. While I didn’t love the idea of anyone wielding a needle so close to what I use to see, I must reiterate, if free, I take.
We’d move on to re-inflate my cupid’s bow, not to the extent of giving me Duck Bill/Trout Pout, but so that my lipstick wouldn’t bleed. We’d finish up by injecting the marionette lines, which is where the face loses volume on either side of the chin below the bottom lip.
Oh, and if Maureen could come up with anything else I could do, that would be fine, too.
When Maureen sat Fletch down, she asked, “What are you thinking?”
He peered at himself in the small mirror she’d handed him. “I don’t like how I seem kind of tired under my eyes. Like I need a nap, even when I’m well-rested. If we could work on that, I’d be good to go.”
“That’s it?” she confirmed.
“Yeah, I’m okay with that,” he replied.
“No,” I interjected. “He needs everything.” I began to rattle off all the parts of his face that could be improved.
“Thanks a lot,” he said, regarding himself in the mirror, a hand gingerly touching all the newfound trouble spots. “I didn’t realize I was so hideous.”
“Listen, this isn’t for you, it’s for me. I've gotta see your face every day over the breakfast table. You can’t be all droopy when I’m fabulous. If I’m going to look younger, damn it, so are you.”
I had never been more excited for an event in my life, not on my graduation after eleven years of college, definitely not when I was married. The time had come for the Plastic Surgery and Med Spa Open House!
The sane, therapy-graduating portion of my brain kept telling me to slow my roll, that there wasn’t anything wrong with my face at present, that I was under no obligation to meet the impossible expectations of being the prettiest and the thinnest and the best. I told myself that I’d earned every spot and wrinkle through all the experiences in my life. Really, I should be regarding those imperfections as badges of honor. Yet those thoughts were quickly drowned out by the rest of my brain which was screeching, “Imma get my free, young face on!”
When we arrived at the doctors’ offices, every room was mobbed with Lisa Rinna doppelgängers, from the reception area to the surgical suite, each double-fisting glasses of white wine and inspecting one another for visible hairline stitches.
Fletch whispered to me, “Why are they all wearing hairy vests and spangled bell-bottoms?”
I glanced down at my nautical striped top and red Dankso sneakers. If their sartorial choices were what’s hot, then I was very cold. Frankly, I’d been stuck buying clothes in the plus department for so long that I had no clue what might be in vogue. While I’d finally been able to start shopping in regular stores, I found I still bought the same preppy things, just in smaller sizes. LL Bean sold my favorite navy and white French sailor’s shirts from XS to 3X. Whatever size I ended up, they had me covered.
We worked our way through the crowd and found the room where Maureen would do her demonstration. She sat me down, covering my face with numbing cream, which would take full effect in twenty minutes. As clientele would
trickle in, she’d explain what was about to happen. My Before shots played on a loop on the large flat-screen to my side. In my head, I kept saying, “See you in hell, Oldie Hawn.”
Once numb, she began the injections, which feel like small pinpricks. They don’t hurt, per se, but the sound of the needle puncturing my skin causes a noise that normally makes me flinch. However, because I had an audience, I kept on my game face, smiling the entire time. I was a pro. I’d be the best model they’d ever had.
A woman of indeterminate age came in to observe. Her skin was like someone had covered it tightly with Saran Wrap. While she didn’t have a single line or pore, all her features were about an inch higher than where they’d originally started. I couldn’t see her ears under her curtain of blonde extensions. If I had to guess, I’d say they were located somewhere on the back of her head. Still, if this makes her happy, then I had no room to judge.
Until the bitch began to judge me.
“Oh, my Gawd,” she gasped, as Maureen touched my forehead with the tiny syringe, the needle’s tip about the same width as an eyelash. The woman couldn’t move her mouth when she spoke, so it was almost like she was her own personal ventriloquism dummy. She clutched her glass of pinot grigio as though it were a life preserver, pressing a hand to her cat-fur vest. “I would never do an injection. Needles? No thank you, ma’am! Anytime I start to see wear and tear on the old kisser, I tell the doc to put me under and lift it all! Needles full of poison are just crazy! You’re crazy!”
After she sashayed off and the room cleared, I said, “Wait, so she’ll risk going under anesthesia, spending twenty grand on a facelift, losing all that recovery time, instead of dropping a couple of hundred bucks on Botox a few times a year? And I’m the crazy one?”
“You understand she was bragging, right?” Fletch replied.
Huh. I did not.
Maureen waited to do the Juvederm Voluma in my cheekbones until the room filled up again, because the Befores and Afters are the most instantaneous and dramatic. While the Botox would take a couple of weeks to fully set, the fillers would change the shape of my face immediately.
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 11
