Botox

I had Botox injections, cosmetic Silly Putty. The doctor said they were like bee stings. No, for god sake, they are needles in my head. My forehead doesn’t move. I’m a blank fortune cookie. &&

Just The Facts

  1. Never frowning or squinting caused me to have facial tics during sex and deep sea fishing trips
  2. When I smiled, I didn't have crows feet. I had the look of a blank fortune cookie.
  3. When I couldn't show expression in my face, I talked louder.

Drawing the Line on Botox

When I was a young girl, my mother taught me that to prevent wrinkles I should never ever frown or squint.  I learned this well.  In later life, this caused me to have facial tics during sex and deep sea fishing trips.  

 

 Recently, a friend and I are laughing.  She says, “Be careful.  You’re getting a wrinkle.”  I take the flashlight and magnifying glass out of my purse and look.  A furrow appears between my eyebrows, and I am getting—dare I write this out loud—crows feet.  I had two options.  No, three.   The third option, having a complete facelift in rural Les Cayes, Haiti, seemed extreme on a number of levels.  So, OK, two options:  (1) go natural or (2) not. 

I opted for “not.”  I decid to have Botox injections to smooth out the wrinkles. Botox, cosmetic Silly Putty.  Was I concerned I was about to get injections of Botulinum toxin, one of the most lethal naturally occurring substances in science?  I've done my research.  I looked at photographs of celebrities who have obviously had Botox, and they’re all still alive.

I make an appointment with a plastic surgeon.  He asks me if I have any questions.  "Yes, will you take a Mini-Mental Exam?"  The doctor begins to make dots with an black felt tip pen from one outer eye, onto my forehead and down to the other eye, which he does either to indicate where he is going to be injecting the Botox or to practice Morse code.  The doctor gives me tiny ice bags and leaves me alone for about 15 minutes.  The ice bags serve two purposes:  to numb the areas where he is going to inject the needles, and to numb my brain so I don’t change my mind and leave.

 

The doctor returns.  He begins to move around my face with the needle, saying that Botox injections  are like bee stings or pin pricks. Umm, no, that’s wrong.  For god’s sake, it’s needles in my head.   

 

When I leave, I look in the rear view mirror.  Yes, it looks like bee stings.  If the bee had come at me in reverse at 200 mph.  Within a day, there were changes to my face. The furrow between my eyebrows is gone.  My forehead doesn’t move.  It looks like an ice skating rink.  When I smile, I don’t have crow’s feet.   I have the look of a blank fortune cookie.   

 

When I can’t show expression in my face, I talk louder or text people while they are standing in front of me.  Then I realize I can get wrinkles in my thumbs and will need Botox in them next.  So, now I use paddles like landing signal officers on the USS Nimitz communicating with aircraft. 

 

Oh, what I’d give for crinkles to show thoughtfulness, friendliness and happiness.  If only I could squint.