Warning: This blog contains a lot of the following swears: Fuck and cellulite.
I haven’t had a dose of vanity insanity since I had shit put in my chinny chin chin back when I’d first arrived in Los Angeles, home of the overdose of overdone. A Doctor Yummy in Beverly Hills put out a Groupon coupon for a discount on Botox and naturally, being a thrifty, responsible gal, I figured I was saving money, and face, by clicking Buy Now! (The fact that I wanted to meet the dreamy dermatologist had nothing to do with my decision. [Fib.] The fact that a Doctor who’s been on The View, Oprah et al. and who is offering Groupon does not go unnoticed, but does get ignored.)
Thank God (no, really, Thanks Lord) that whatever it was Doctor Yummy injected into my face was temporary. I’m sure I looked like Jim Carrey in the movie Me, Myself and Irene after his exaggerated chin implant butt-crack-on-face scene. How I’d gone from Botox to butt-face and a few hunskies to this-is-the-money-I-was-saving-for-a-Vespa in one ‘educational consultation’ (with his assistant, no less) is a sign of the pervasive perversity of Socialite Central (Beverly Hills)—just walking through the courtyard past Plastic Barbie #73, I’d decided I was definitely underdone.
In a posh office with his assistant, a suspiciously natural looking specimen, I’m immediately handed a hand mirror.
“The doctor will evaluate your face for symmetry and show you how he can correct the imperfections.”
“But I just want this frown, here, gone.” I point at the furrow between my eyes, which is in full effect after her unsolicited “correct imperfections” comment.
She points at the mirror, “Of course! He can talk with you about that, too.”
I think, “Too?”
I look in the mirror searching for what must be obvious. The only thing coming to mind, and mirror, is my jawline, which admittedly is slightly askew from bumping it after having jaw surgery years ago (TMJ plus vanity). This moved the titanium plate blah blah blah—but I can chew at least, and it only clicks first thing in the morning, now.
I study myself in the mirror, opening and closing my mouth.
I think, “Shit!”
I say, “Crap! I am crooked. Can he fix this?”
“Of course!”
Dr. Yummy, with his exotic good looks and shiny black hair falling in his eyes and perfectly white pearlies, enters the room, walks directly over to me, squats down in front of me, gently puts one hand over mine on the mirror while placing the other one at the side of my shoulder. He looks into my rapidly blinking eyes and smiles. I want to cry like I’ve just had the most amazing orgasm ever, and he hasn’t uttered a sound.
He runs a slow finger along my jawline. I swoon. (Where do I sign?)
“Hmm … you have a nice face. Almost perfect.”
I think, “That’s not good enough!!!”
I gush, “Can you fix me?”
I skip the Botox but go for the non-surgical, non-invasive, doesn’t-really-count procedure. A couple grand later and a grand protrusion jutting out from my peripheral vision, I’m happily symmetrical—though I can’t smile for a few hours, and I feel like I have a potato attached to my chin.
That night my gut churns as though I’ve had a drunken one-night stand in a top floor Vegas nightclub at Mandalay Bay (err, not that I’d know what that feels like. Cough.) Fortunately, 3 days later I see a friend who makes no mention of my Late Night with Leno, and I’m relieved to simply be out the dough. So much for my Vespa. (Too dangerous for LA, anyway, I say.)
And like any dame who’s had one too many don’t-do-that-agains, I ditch Doctor Yummy and determine to live “the rest of my life au natural!” which I do—until last month …
*
Being mildly (flutter) OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), I go from saving for my RSP plan (Requirement Surgery Practices) anti-aging cosmetic procedures to fuck-this-shit-what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-aging-anyway-stupid-western-society-cultural-brainwashing-bullshit-I’m-out!
I renounce anything anti-aging: no procedures (non-invasive or otherwise) or injections or the like; no lotions or potions or serums; minimal make-up (might as well use up what I’ve got); I even stop shaving my legs (yes, this trend is laziness—I realize you’re onto me on this one. [Eh, shrug.]).
I was totally chillaxed (hashtag stupid slang word) with all this until last month when I started hanging with Boy-Man (aka Rejected Me #1). I’d even gotten through a good portion of the summer with nary an I’m-so-hairy concern, figuring, “Fuck it. I’m not going to find Mr. Keeper here in my [childhood] home town, anyway—so I’ll keep ‘em at bay.”
But then I did meet Boy-Man. Damn him. (I may blog about him, or I may save that juicy stuff for my next memoir: “Boys, Bad Decisions & Boozy Nights.” I hear there’s a Vegas story ripe for that writing.)
Anyway, I waxed my legs and shaved my bits—bad idea (see “Bush Waxing: Tips to Get through Your Fanny’s Forest”). Whilst bending in every angle to fandangle every follicle I notice—to my horror—something seriously amiss. Dare I write it: that shameful callous condition (affecting 90% of women but not meeee, damn it!)—CELL. U. LITE. I can’t even type it in whole. I have to break it down to its cottage cheese consistency.
Fucking cellulite.
W.T.F.
Deep breath. Exhale. No solution. Deep breath. Exhale.
I remember the prayer about accepting what we cannot change, and wisdom about knowing the difference and all that blah blah and okay, God, then help me with this one.
The Venus Freeze!
Island Daily Deals is our local version of Groupon. No kidding, this orange-peel reducing procedure shows up on their website a couple days later. God gives me a solution and a discount—yay, God! Love. (As far as I’m concerned, the Bible dictates to honour your body, so ‘polishing the stone’ applies. Hashtag hypocrite. Hashtag fuckoff.)
Not only that but ‘the spa’ is in my hometown. (I admit, though, I’m getting a little confused as to which ‘my hometown’ is which—the one I grew up in and the one I am ‘staying’ with my mom in, or the one I spent the last 18 years in and had most of my career in up to last year? To clarify, from now on, I’ll call them: my childhood hometown and my adulthood hometown.)
So the Island Daily Deal is in my childhood hometown, but there’s another clinic in my adulthood hometown where I am located when the Daily Deal comes through so, being of sound mind, I boot right over and ask if they’ll honour the price and spot reduce my booty. Turns out their prices aren’t too rich after all—they’re the same as the coupon deal.
“Bonus! When can you book me in?”
Half an hour later, I’m in my undies under unflattering fluorescent lights, which I’m sure is part of the sales pitch. I’ve got both aesthetician’s (wait, I think they’re nurses—at least one is, for sure) in the room with me, and I’m contorting my body and lifting my leg and pinching my thighs to reveal the evidence of revulsion.
“See! Disgusting. And look at this … And when I bend over like this, look at my knees—wrinkles! How could I ever do downward dog? Not that I want to, I’m not a yoga fan, but I’d like to have the choice. Can you fix me?”
I can tell the aestheticians are vacillating between “you look great” and “great doesn’t sell” so I offer assistance, “Okay, I know I look pretty good compared to others, but I’m comparing to me—the old, err, younger, me who didn’t have this! Fair enough?”
I squeeze my thigh for emphasis, and they acquiesce, “But you do look great.”
I retort, “If better is possible, is “great” good enough? Exactly.”
Another hour later, I’m lying in the reclined chair with goo on my thighs and Nurse Betty massaging them with the magic laser machine. It gets warm and then hot and then scalding. I hold out as long as possible, reasoning that heat melts cheese.
“Hot.” I say, and she dials down the digits.
It takes 10 to 15 minutes per section, per leg, front and back. Up to the scalding part I could almost fall asleep, but I’m too excited to get my fix (so to speak) so I’m enthusiastically babbling like a crack junkie lining up a hit. (This one I’m really surmising, I’ve never been a crack junkie.)
I tell her about my book and all the “things I’ve had done to myself” and that “I’m coming out of the closet on all of it” and “I am so writing about this!”
And the timer beeps and she wipes the goo off and I’m red and splotchy and it so must be working and I book my next session—one a week for 10 weeks, which is perfect because I go back to California the day after my last session and Haha! Cell-u-lite, you’re days are numbered, bitch! And “I’ll see you next week” and “Can’t wait for your book” and I leave with a light skip in my step and a smile on my No-Longer-Leno face and life is good and maybe my childhood small town and my adulthood small town aren’t uncultured clubs after all.
The Lord works in mysterious ways. I’ll let you know in 10 weeks if I’m derriere dimple-free.
What have I (re)learned?
If God doesn’t want me mucking with my body, he won’t keep sending me coupon codes at just the right time for me to interpret it as a sign! Also, I’m once again reminded—who cares what other people think of me (or what I’m doing)? It’s about what makes me feel good. For example: I like my nose and various other parts, even if you don’t, and I don’t like my cellulite, even if you do.
My homework:
Judge not. Cast no stones. Just polish the one I’ve got.
