The Break-Up Diet

Pin the Eyebrow on the Old Lady

I don’t speak Spanish, but I think the translation for this picture is: These are your various facial expressions after BOTOX: happy, sad, excited, depressed, etc.

It’s funny in any language. And oh so true.

I admit, I tried Botox. I mean, let’s face it, it’s a competitive world out there in the dating scene. A girl’s got to do what she can to stay in the game. Once a woman nears the mid-thirties mark, the guys of the same age are trying to recapture their lost youth by trolling for cheerleaders at the local high school. Taunt flesh has a certain appeal for men who navigate through life with the divining rod of their wiener as a guide.

With that in mind, having a doctor inject a deadly bacterium into my face to paralyze it and smooth out the wrinkles sounded like a really great idea at the time. Heck, I wasn’t getting any younger, so why not get a little help, right?

So, I went to Dr. Something-berg-or-feld in Newport Beach—a nice Jewish dermatologist in the Plastic Capital of Southern California. Of course, I fit in so well in that posh waiting room, dressed in my sweats, flip flops, and ponytail.

I end up in the exam room and Dr. 92658 is mapping out his strategic attack on the linear results of my years of extreeemely animated facial expressions. Out comes the little bottle of Botox and the needle. Did I mention that I’m TERRIFIED of needles? Like hyperventilate, drop kick your nuts across the room, and fight for my life kind of terrified. Well, that day, I faced one of my greatest fears—being single for the rest of my natural life. It can do amazing things when you weigh those two fears together. Hmmm…a few pokes in the face with a sharp, pointy object, or many long, lonely years of wool sweaters, smelly cats, and Harlequin romance novels…

I chose the needle.

Can I just tell you, when you get Botox injected in between your eyebrows, it makes a squeaky sound like sticking a fork into a sauteed onion, and the sound echoes in your head. Major heebie jeebies. When it was all over, I had little red dots around the outside of my eyes, between my eyebrows, and across my forehead. I paid a couple hundred bucks to be a human pincushion and provide condo accommodations on my face for live bacteria. And I’d have to go back and do it all over again in 2-3 months when it wore off. What a bargain.

Ya see, I’m the kind of person who likes a good experiment—see how things turn out…record the progress…report my findings. So, here’s how it went: “Holy crap, my face is stuck!” That about sums it up. My eyebrows were stuck in the upright and locked position like an airline tray table. I looked like someone surprised the hell out of me. I already had a naturally high arch to my eyebrows, but after the Botox—the doctor may as well have stapled my eyebrows to the middle of my forehead. They didn’t move. Well, not really, but my facial muscles were still so strong that they were able to bend my eyebrows in the middle into a very Star Trekkian/Spock-like shape. Which was quite attractive, I assure you. So, after all that, I had two available expressions for 3 entire months: I’m surprised! and I’m a f***ing Vulcan.

FWIW, I recommend passing on the Botox.