The Siren Call of Youth

I must have been living under a rock because until now, I had no idea how popular Botox was. Oh sure, I understood that the Hollywood glitterati were familiar with its charms but I had no idea that it was average America's dirty little secret.

Internet, look around you.

See that forty year old with the smooth brow? Botox.
See the guy with the discreetly plucked brows (notice the plural as in no unibrow) and how he has no lines between those brows? Botox.
See how refreshed and well rested your neighbour looks? Remarkable for nearly fifty years old, right? Botox baby.

I find myself peering into the faces of strangers everywhere I go now looking for signs of a little cosmetic help. And let me tell you, Northwest Arkansas is either full of genetically gifted people or Botox is way more widespread than I would have ever thought.

The other day, I was sitting on our bed after a workout and Dallas commented about how young I looked. I didn't have a lick of make up on. Like a science project, he got up close and scrutinized my face and then shook his head at how well the Botox has worked. I think he said, "remarkable". And it is.

The bad part about trying out Botox is that it is a bit like marijuana. That first high is so new and delicious that you cannot believe how good you feel. "Why didn't I try this stuff ages ago?" you ask. And before you know it, you're rolling your own doobies. Then someone suggests that you might want to consider Juvederm or Restylane to smooth out some of those wrinkles. Or, perhaps a little laser face resurfacing might freshen your look and before you know it, BAM, Botox is routine and you contemplate bolder, more invasive ways to turn back the clock.

I can already see how the pursuit of a more youthful appearance could escalate from a simple dermatologists appointment to researching plastic surgeons. Success with one procedure gets you thinking about another. I'm guilty. I've been looking at that bump in my nose and wondering how much it would cost to have that thing shaved off. I hate the wattle underneath my chin and if I had the funds, I liposuck it right out.

And my arse end. It belonged to my Grammy, was passed along to my mum who then generously bequeathed it to me. Oh God, how I loathe it. There must be something a talented surgeon could do that apparently the elliptical, squats and cellulite cream can't. And see, that's the problem. It is sooo easy to look in the mirror and pick apart every last perceived flaw and it's even easier, if you've got the money, to find a professional who will do whatever your heart desires, which is sort of scary.




A surgeon did this.
















And this.
















And this.




I wonder what Jocelyn and Carrot Top see when they look into the mirror. Are they happy with the mask that gazes back at them? I wonder if they were even cognizant of when they crossed the line from nip/tuck to disfigurement.

It's probably a good thing that I haven't got a few hundred thousand laying around because I suspect that for me, plastic surgery would be a lot like the cocktails at a dinner party. Everything is under control with that first one but if you're not careful, you could find yourself in the backseat of a Chevy, nursing a hangover with your panties in your purse.