Botox party? I've always wondered how an event that includes poisons can be called a party. I tend to prefer my chardonnay and cheese without sharp needles, but it's amazing how a few facial lines can change a person's perspective.
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I used to say, "What kind of desperate narcissist would paralyze her face with a shot of botulism?"
When I had the dewy skin of youth, it was easy for me to pooh-pooh Botox. Now that I'm older, however, and my face is treading into Keith Richards' territory, poisons don't seem out of the realm of possibility. What's a little botulism among friends? It's not as though it's going to kill me. Well ... I hope not.
When I was 15, I was convinced youth ended at 25. I remembered saying, "Ten more years and I'll be on the fast train to Hag City."
To reduce the ravages of time, I bought my first bottle of Oil of Olay, or "Oil of Old Lady," as it's sometimes called. Though essentially harmless, it was a "gateway" product paving the way to harder stuff.
The pink wonder cream saw me through my teens and early 20s. On my 25th birthday, however, I was ready to up the ante. Enter the alpha hydroxy acids.
Yup. It's a big jump from "oils" to "acids," but I took the plunge in the name of youthful skin. As I entered my 30s, my vanity top looked like a mad scientist's lab. I was hooked on every acid, from salicylic to glycolic. As my tolerance grew, I scoured the cosmetic counters for higher and higher concentrations.
I refused to admit I had a habit, even when I supplemented my anti-aging routine with heavy-duty eye cream. When I hit 40, I added a little Retin-A to the party.
I thought my face was holding up pretty well, until I went to a grocery store on a Wednesday and the cashier handed me my receipt, and said cheerfully, "I gave you the senior discount."
"What? You gave me the What?!!!"
"Uh ... I'm sorry, ma'am. Maybe I didn't look at you closely enough."
"Darn straight you didn't!"
I tore though the store like a dervish, from the seafood department to the deli, saying, "Do I look 65? Do I look 65?"
Of course, I can laugh about this now ... well, not actually laugh, but I can at least tell the story without foaming at the mouth.
The grocery store incident got me to thinking. I'd been burning the top layer of my skin with acids for the past couple of decades; why not graduate to injecting it with deadly poisons?
The other option, of course, is to age gracefully, but with the way our culture is headed, a woman who dares to look her age will likely be ostracized.
"Mommy! Why is that lady's face sagging?"
"Don't stare, sweetie. Those are called wrinkles. Although why some people have to walk around in broad daylight, scaring young children is beyond me."
So maybe a Botox party is in my future. The host can provide the wine, brie and botulism. Me? I'll bring the wrinkles. I've got an ample supply of them.
Augusta resident Karin Gillespie is the author of bet your bottom dollar. She can be reached through her Web site at www.karingillespie.com.
