I’ve just come from my bathroom mirror where I routinely try to avoid my reflection. That’s difficult to do, considering the mirror is almost eight feet wide. Perhaps I should swath it in gray gauze. Isn’t that a tradition some follow in the wake of a loved ones death?
I would be mourning my face. The one I had until last year when gravity had its way, aided by a major weight loss, and my face collapsed into folds I’d seen before only on a SharPei. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but that’s what I think of when I look in the mirror: those so-homely-they’re-cute dogs who have too much skin for their skeletons. I am at the same time horrified and fascinated. The former because–how the hell did I get to look this way? The latter because that’s not the me I see in my mind’s eye. I’m working at coming to terms with both those things.
Would I consider doing something about it? Having some “work” done? I might. Okay, I have. When I wrote about it before, I hadn’t. But now I will tell you that I’ve had Botox shot into my crow’s feet and Restylane shot into what are euphemistically called my marionette lines. I learned that what the professionals mean when they tell you you’ll look refreshed is that unless your dermatologist comes from the More Is Better school, you’ll still have the same creases and bags only they won’t be so prominent.
I’m at the stage of decrepitude (and I use that word most lovingly) where the only real answer I suspect is to get a face lift. If you clicked on that link above and read my last dissertation about plastic surgery, know that all the pros and cons for me are still pretty much the same. Oy, the money! Oy, the botched jobs! Oy, the pain!
I was recently sent a book by Canadian plastic surgeon, Peter A. Adamson, MD called Fabulous Faces. When I began glancing through it, I was doing so only in the most cursory manner. But then somewhere not too far in, my attention was caught by the specificity and forthrightness of his words, and I ended up reading the whole thing. It was more than an Insider’s guide to cosmetic surgery; it was the conversation you’d have with a plastic surgeon if the two of you were stuck in an elevator for a couple of hours with nothing to do but talk about his work.
After reading Adamson’s book, I realized that the biggest deterrent for me is: oy, the money! What would it take for me to justify spending such an enormous amount of cash? One friend who had a face lift did it to maintain her credibility in the youth-oriented industry she works in. Another did it because she wanted to be a viable competitor in the dating game. I can’t really relate to either of those reasons. So unless and until a compelling reason comes my way, I’ll work at gracefully accepting that–dammit, my life well lived does show on my face.
Jane Gassner
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