A lot of my friends are at that certain age when the siren call of Botox cannot be resisted. Some are even having tucks or lifts or whatever may have you.
I’m not there. Having had mandatory surgery, which I didn’t like the first go-around and liked even less the second, electing to have surgery goes against every grain in my rapidly aging body. And I have a theory about Botox and plastic surgery—only the formerly beautiful need it. It’s hard for people who are used to being beautiful to let it go. Beauty is social currency—it’s respected and praiseworthy, even awe-inspiring. As a result, beautiful people rely on how they look as part of their worth. When their looks go—as they always do—it’s not without a fight.
For the rest of us mere mortals—the nonbeautiful, shall we say—we’ve gotten by with being sort of ho-hum in the looks department and found other ways to create value and find self-worth, whether it’s through being a good friend, being funny, being cultured, whatever. For that reason, most of us aren’t faced with the choice of injecting toxins into our forty year-old foreheads. Because honestly? The results aren’t going to be all that amazing. If on a scale of one to ten, the highest you can score after needles and surgery is a five, the choice is clear: STAY HOME AND EAT THAT SECOND CHOCOLATE BAR.
By golly, I think I'll have one right now.