Botox: The Other Gateway Drug
Although I’ve never written about him on this blog, I do happen to have a father. He is a grumpy man with a severe scowl. Deep grooves are permanently embedded between his eyebrows, and when I visit my grandmother she shows me pictures proving that they grow impossibly deeper with every passing year.
Unfortunately, when I scowl, frown, concentrate, etc., my face mimics his to a tee. Since my early twenties I have kept a close watch on this area for any signs of becoming my father. It hasn’t happened yet but now that I’m in my thirties, I notice two little lines that seem intent to stay. Despite the fact that I’ve always known this would happen, and have been watching and waiting, I wasted about six months pretending they weren’t there. When I snapped out of that, thanks to the boyfriend asking why I was glaring at him when he hadn’t done anything wrong for once, I then spent 48 hours curled up in bed lamenting the degradation of my youth. After the sulking, I finally smartened up and sprang into action.
So yesterday I went to my first Botox appointment. Thirty four units of Botox were injected into my lower forehead after I filled out a lengthy questionnaire in a clinic waiting room that was more posh than any room in my condo apartment, impatiently answered the doctor’s questions and arranged myself on what looked like a high-end dentist chair. Once she was finished administering the five needles, she asked, “Okay, shall we do the upper forehead now?”
What? Upper forehead?
She handed me a mirror and sure enough there are two faint horizontal lines creeping in. How could I not have noticed this before? Have I spent so much time examining my scowl that I failed to notice the rest of my face? The doctor went on to tell me that I should have started with Botox on my scowl when it was at the stage as these two new little lines. Ugh. I promised her that I would consider getting injections on those lines (I refuse to call them wrinkles, btw, because they are nowhere near becoming wrinkles yet) on the next appointment in four or five months.
When back in the lobby waiting to pay, a gorgeous woman with the skin of a goddess, unnaturally puffy lips and an outfit that likely cost the same amount as my entire wardrobe sashayed towards me. She introduced herself, asked how my appointment went and then politely suggested I schedule more much needed work.
Um, more work? Like what?
She guided me into her office and showed/explained how I desperately needed the following:
- A weight loss plan
- Skin tightening treatments
- Cellulite treatments
- Something that will smooth and even my facial skin
There it is, folks. Apparently I’m falling apart. How I did not notice that I’m overweight, covered from head to toe in cottage cheese skin and have a severely uneven facial tone is beyond me. Perhaps it is my boyfriend’s fault for constantly telling me I’m beautiful. Maybe I will blame the man who walked into a wall the other day because he was so intently fixated on my ass. Or should I chastise my mother for saying things like, “If I were your age, I would totally wear that dress.”
So what should I do now? Mortgage the condo or sell off the boat in order to pay the billions of dollars it will apparently take for me to once again be presentable enough to mingle with the rest of society?