I realize some women think that getting Botox is a mortal sin. It’s gotten a bad rap after overuse by certain frozen-featured Hollywood celebrities. They have that deer-in-the-headlights look that comes from not being able to move any of the muscles in their upper face. A good plastic surgeon is an expert at using just the right amount of Botox to limit overexpression, but leave their patients with enough facial movement to appear human. No one wants to look like a Stepford Wife. I want to be careful here, though, because I try to refrain from judging other people’s choices. If it makes them happy, that’s their business.
A lot of women feel compelled to insist that no one use Botox.
Age gracefully, they cry!
Thanks, but no thanks, I reply!
I miss Botox. I miss not being able to make angry faces. I miss the sense of calm and rightness with the world that came from freezing my forehead muscles. I also miss being able to wear my bangs swept to the side in a sparkling barrette and not seeing wrinkles in the mirror. Oh, for those carefree, blissful, toxin-filled days!
I stopped getting Botox, due to budgetary constraints, after what I call the Year from Hell in Tennessee. This could not have been a less opportune time to cease treatment. The onslaught of menopause, the considerable stress under which I was living, and the lack of sweet poisonous tranquility proved to be a potent combination. My once-smooth forehead rapidly began producing a flurry of wrinkles.
As my mood—and forehead—continued to implode, I did some research to see if there was something to the serenity I’d previously experienced. Was it possible that not being able to make angry faces was preventing me from being angry? Was that a real thing? As it turns out, Botox fights depression. Studies have shown that not being able to make stressed-out, angry, sad faces really does make us less stressed out, angry, and sad.
It’s a twofer! Sign me up.
A Visit with the Botox Fairy
I have returned from my visit with the Botox Fairy. I look like a real girl now and not just a puppet on a string! Currently I look like a real duck girl, but we will all cross our fingers that my lips will return to a more normal size within the next few days. This experience was neither fun nor funny. Don’t let anybody sugarcoat this one. The shots hurt. They’re not in the same league as giving birth without painkillers, and I know of which I speak, but they still hurt. I currently look as though I went a few rounds with Mike Tyson and lost. It will all soften in the next few days. For your edification, education, enlightenment, and entertainment I will proceed to give you a prick-by-prick account of my journey into the world of architectural preservation.
I was given a consent form to read and fill out about Botox. I read and signed my name on the dotted line. This was with some reservations, due to the 1 percent of folks who experience a temporary eyelid droop, which would truly suck wind. I sucked it up, accepting the potential for wind sucking, and signed. I went back to a little examination room. The nurse came in and we talked about the things I wished to change and how Botox might achieve that. She took some before photos. Then she went to get the doctor. He was a very nice man with a very calm manner. I needed calm. Chatty doctors wielding needles aren’t my thing.
The Botox Fairy assessed my assets and my issues. We agreed on Botox around the eyes, forehead, and in between the eyes. Then he talked to me about the three types of fillers we could use. Each one is a hyaluronic acid gel that is injected into your skin to plump up the wrinkled or recessed area. You aren’t really erasing the wrinkle as much as filling it in with a viscous goop. Restylane® is the least expensive and lasts the shortest time. Juvederm® is slightly more expensive and lasts a little longer, so it’s basically more bang for your buck. Radiesse® is a bit more expensive than the other two, but lasts significantly longer. Since I wasn’t sure if I was going to love my new face, I opted for Juvederm. It helped that Juvederm was on a half-price special. We all know how much I love a bargain. If I love the results this time around, then I will upgrade to the longer-lasting gel. Is it just me, or does this sound like a laundry detergent comparison? Golly, I really love Juvederm, it makes my whites whiter and my colors POP!
The doctor stepped out of the room and the nurse returned and slapped some funky anesthetic goo that looked like curdled milk on my lips and marionette lines. Unfortunately, some of it made it into my mouth, so my tongue went numb and my mouth tasted yucky. The doctor returned with a little plastic case that had a lot of needles in it. Ack. They don’t numb you for Botox, but the needle is very thin. It hurts. It doesn’t hurt quite as much as a bee sting, but enough to make you jump and shake a little bit. Every time the needle went in there was this creepy crunching sound. It was sort of like someone eating a tortilla chip—or maybe more like a Bugle corn snack, because it’s less dense—or stepping on snow that has iced up a little.
Crunch, crackle, pop.
This sound was caused by the sun damage on the surface of my skin. If you look up “white girl” in the dictionary, you’ll see my photo. I do my best to avoid the sun, but I can’t live in a bubble. Let me just say one word here: sunscreen. Sunscreen is your friend.
Crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch.
About six needles went into my forehead. My new bangs cover this, but I may not wish to have bangs forever. Besides, my bang-cutting skills are abysmal. Then the three or so shots that went in the lines between my eyes were followed by six more in the smile lines under my eyes.
Crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch.
It takes time for Botox to work, meaning your muscles will stop contracting, but the lines don’t go away. The static or resting lines are there for good, but with continued Botox injections they will recede or soften somewhat. Whatever doesn’t recede can be filled with gel. If you start using Botox sooner, then you won’t get the static lines.
Botox finished. Phew . . . the creepy crunching has ceased. I bled a little bit, and I exhaled.
Onward and upward to filler land. The doctor had to numb my gums for the gel injections, so he placed a couple swabs soaked in a strong anesthetic inside my upper gums and let them sit for a moment. Then I got two big shots of painkiller there. Ouch. The second one really hurt. My mouth tasted godawful. I had to spit a few times into the sink and wipe some of the funk out of my mouth. I was totally numb, so spitting was a little tricky. Maybe “projectile drooling” would be a better description of this portion of the story. Then he began injecting the filler. I felt little to nothing—a major blessing. We did the lines with, I think, about three shots on each side, then he had to reach inside my mouth and massage the gel a little. Then we did my lips. The only part where I felt the needle was the center of the lip, but it was more of a pinch than a sting. To quote that oft-quoted film Snow Dogs, “More than a tickle, less than a pinch.” After doing this, the doctor decided that the sides of my mouth needed a little plumping where some downturned lines had started. Since I hadn’t been anesthetized here, it hurt like a mothershutyourmouth! I am glad he did it, though. It wasn’t quite as painful as a piercing—a belly button piercing not an ear piercing. It hurt more than a flu shot.
That’s all she wrote, and then I paid the piper and headed home. All in all, not so bad. Then you start to think, Well now there’s this other thing over here. Should I fix that? The doctor asked if I wanted to erase my freckles, to which I shouted a resounding “NO! I love my freckles. Love them. They are here to stay.” I must remain upright for four hours. I must not jog, dance, bounce on my trampoline, or engage in any strenuous physical activity for the next 24 to 48 hours. I think that can be arranged, unless baking five dozen of my world-famous chocolate chip–oatmeal cookies counts as strenuous physical activity. Then I am SCREWED!
My daughter says I don’t look like a duck or really that different. I do look like a duck, but she’s a thoughtful daughter and she knows when to lie to her mommy to spare her feelings. Just call me Duck Mom. Quack freaking quack.
There you are, folks, a play-by-play analysis of my visit to the Bot
ox Fairy. I’ll never lie about having work done.
Hope in a Jar
I have a drawer, as do most women of a certain age, straining at the seams with a dazzling array of lotions, potions, serums, and elixirs all promising to restore my youthful appearance. I call this the Drawer of False Promises and Shattered Dreams. When opened, it emits a heavy sigh of disappointment.
I have exfoliated, scrubbed, oxygenated, masked, massaged, soaked, slathered, poked, pinched, prodded, and prayed.
I have addressed my lack of radiance, slow cell-rate turnover, wrinkles, fine lines, sagging, collagen depletion, age spots, inflammation, sun damage, and dreaded loss of plumpness with due reverence.
One would think that a gal who has put as many magical creams on her face and neck as I have in the endless pursuit of the fountain of youth would (in the words of Isaac Mizrahi) “look a-MAH-zing.” One would be incorrect. I look good, better than some, but I do not look “a-MAH-zing.” This is because, regardless of what the purveyors of these absurdly expensive snake oil concoctions in fancy jars say to get us to pony up the Benjamins, there is no lotion, potion, cream, nor serum that will restore youth.
I know this, yet every time I read an article in one of my lady magazines touting the wonders of a “game changing” new entrant into the skin care market, I am hooked. I must have this wonder cream. I know this cream is different. After all, the editors at Marie Claire LOVED it!
It usually goes something like this:
Squeal with delight after reading rave review of new beauty cream that is groundbreaking and revolutionary, written by a 20-something beauty editor who has nary a wrinkle on her face.
Obsess over the possibility that this beauty cream is going to change my life.
Drive to King of Prussia Mall, screaming obscenities at idiots in parking lot who seem incapable of understanding the importance of my mission.
Avoid perky salespeople wielding spray bottles of stinky perfume, stalk beauty cream like Captain Ahab after Moby Dick.
SUCCESS!
HUZZAH!
Traipse back to car with tiny striped gift bag resplendent with the first flush of new love.
Drive home, race inside, open beauty cream to chorus of angels.
Slather on face and wait. Oh yes! I feel it! Something is happening!
Continue slapping beauty cream on face twice daily for several weeks, convinced that something is indeed happening.
Face the sad truth that I have once again been flimflammed and bamboozled. Damn you, beauty cream.
Solemnly shove beauty cream into the Drawer of False Promises and Shattered Dreams.
End scene.
Defining Style
Many of us (including this writer) have stood in the dressing room under the horrid glow of fluorescent lights in an ill-fitting garment, mouth agape in horror.
“ACK! It looked so appealing on the mannequin!”
We’ve gone skipping into a shopping trip with the vague hope of feeling fabulous, only to be met by a dazzling array of unflattering fashions and unfortunate accessories. Fashion is designed for younger, thinner, mostly impossible bodies. When you’re a size 2 and age 22, everything looks good on you. When you’re a size 14 and age 54, it’s dismal out there.
Don’t give up hope. You’ve got this!
Fuck the fickle finger of fashion. Wear what makes you feel fantastic and do it fearlessly. You define your style, and that’s what makes discovering it a grand adventure.
Style is a form of expression. It’s an exterior manifestation of your interior world. It’s a way of sharing what makes you unique through the things with which you adorn yourself. Trends come and go. Fashion is fleeting. Yet, style remains that indefinable something else. We know it when we see it, but it’s hard to pin down.
Live long enough, or even live a short time with an uncanny sense of self, and you will develop a personal style. Even if it’s a “non-style,” it’s still something that you wear every day that expresses something about you. Everyone has some kind of style, but great style is rare, and it almost always appears effortless.
Remember that Lady Godiva wore her birthday suit in public and we’re still talking about her.
Now, that’s defining style.
What a woman should never wear:
• An air of superiority.
• A look of self-righteous indignation.
• A cloak of shame.
• Old baggage that is no longer serving her happiness.
• The marks left from a hand lifted in anger.
• The face of fear.
• Her sorrow like a millstone.
• Anything that makes her feel uncomfortable.
• Clothing specifically designed to shame her body or make her feel morally inferior.
• The weight of other people’s opinions.
• The hair shirt of martyrdom.
What a woman should always wear:
• Her confidence.
• An air of mystery.
• A wicked grin.
• A true sense of her self-worth.
• Anything that makes her feel fabulous.
• The cape of happiness.
• Pride in her achievements.
• True joy in the success of others.
• A live-and-let-live attitude.
• A no-bullshit shield.
• A positive outlook.
• A pair of shoes that make her feel that she can kick ass, take names, and get up the next day and do it again.
• Whatever the hell she wants.
My Life in Panties
I’m not sure if this is yet another harbinger of aging disgracefully, but I’m admitting out loud that my panty needs have shifted dramatically over the past few years. Where I once had a drawer stuffed with lacy thongs, I now have a drawer filled with Lycra stretch hip-huggers and I’m eyeballing the full-coverage panties with a disturbing amount of excitement. It’s come to this—granny panties. Apparently, I’m right on trend. They’re all the rage with the hipsters who find them to be panty perfection with those high-waisted pants we once called Mom Jeans. Everything comes back around eventually. Suddenly the thing we all thought of as hideous seems fresh and fashionable again.
Back in my 20s, when I wore leggings as pants without shame, a thong kept the dreaded VPL (visible panty lines) at bay. At the time, the thicker stretch lace back won over the string, and I stuffed my lingerie drawer with an array of alluring thongs with matching push-up bras and camisoles. I modeled underwear and lingerie for a series of print ads for a San Jose lingerie shop. I amassed a collection of vintage cone bras, merry widows, and girdles, which I wore as outerwear to dance clubs, long before Madonna’s Blond Ambition Tour. My panty drawer overfloweth(ed).
At 34, I found myself pregnant and suffering from, ahem, hemorrhoids. My posterior expanded along with my midsection. Suddenly the thin strip of fabric that had so easily tucked itself between my cheeks when I was a size 2 was no longer even remotely comfortable. Butt floss, anyone? My compromise was a low-slung, hip-hugging model that fully covered my backside. Still sexy, still flirty, still fun, but this model didn’t require careful excavation at the end of a long day. Party in the front, business in the back.
At 40, I continued to embrace the hip-hugger, and after losing enough weight to find myself back in a size 4, thongs returned to the rotation. I stocked up on garter belts, stockings, corsets, and more in celebration of the return of my formerly svelte physique! Hooray for saucy undergarments!
In my late 40s, a potent combination of stress, perimenopause, and asthma medications sent me back up the size ladder. Thongs bit the dust as I watched size 6 fade into the rearview mirror. Hipsters returned as I rounded the corner to size 8. Then I hit size 10, then 12, then turned 50 and found myself in new territory without a compass. My hipster panties hit me mid-pooch, creating something less like a muffin top and more like a Bundt cake. This cake was not tasty, not tasty at all. Insert sad face. Pick a p
ack of panties? Meh.
I found myself wandering through the lingerie department in search of something appealing that bridged the gap between hip hipsters and sad granny panties. On my final visit to a famous purveyor of women’s undergarments, a snobby salesperson made it painfully clear that I was no longer the store’s target demographic. After so many years of lingerie drawers filled with their lacy bras and undies, the sound of the door hitting me on my size 12, over-50 rear end was deafening. Hey, Victoria. I’ve got a secret for you. Women want to feel sexy no matter what their size or age.
I’m not suggesting that you can’t wear a thong or a hipster or a boy short, or whatever kind of panty you prefer, if you’re over 50 and wear a size, 10, 12, or 18. I’m merely stating that I am no longer comfy in a thong or a hipster or a boy short. Until I begin my journey back to a smaller size, I’m weighing my underwear options. I want to put on my big girl panties and get over it, but I wish someone would grasp that a full-coverage panty can still possess stylish details. Where is the saucy granny, the sexy senior, the mischievous matron? Why can’t full-coverage panties be sassy, like me? Is that asking too much?
Girl Meets Sweater: A Love Story . . . with a Twist!
Once a chill hits the air and my cup magically fills with pumpkin spice coffee, I begin my unrelenting search for the perfect sweater. I have specific needs that I am asking a sweater to meet, a checklist if you will. It looks something like this:
• Comfortable, yet stylish.
• Grazes posterior without accentuating the negative.
• Sneeze-inducing fibers need not apply. That means you mohair, angora, and alpaca. Sorry.
• Fun without being obnoxious, unless it’s a Halloween or Christmas sweater, in which case, break out the BeDazzler™!
Fifty and Other F-Words Page 9
