Talking The Talk: Full Disclosure

Deb: As promised, I am coming in with full disclosure. If there was ever a topic where this F.D. was shouting to get out, it is the stream of Talking the Talk about women and self-esteem and the lengths we will go to make ourselves look better, younger, slimmer, shapelier.

I had a facelift. A full facelift. A big old facelift. This lift was the take your face off and place it on a table, pull your skin behind your ears, frankenstein bolts in the head  kind of facelift. I was 8 hours in surgery and I had this lift fourteen years ago at the age of forty-five.

I should be clear about the full disclosure aspect of this. This is only “bloggie full disclosure”. Pretty much anyone who knows me, knows that I had this procedure. And not just because I can’t keep anything to myself. They know it because I wanted them to know it. I always thought it was important that women should know that I had a lift and I’ll tell you why. 

After my facelift settled (yes, it has to settle, just like the poured cement sidewalk), women would tell me how great I looked and how young I looked. Often this statement, although coming from a sincerely generous place, was accompanied by a look of wistful longing. I knew they were thinking, “I am the same age as her. Why does she not have jowls or bags under her eyes, and where the hell did she get that taut chin?”  So I felt it was incumbent upon me to tell them that I look this way because I have had a facelift. If I had not had said facelift, I would resemble a very cute and well-meaning Shar-Pei pup. It was important to me that these woman knew that I was not better or younger looking, nor had I sprung from a superior gene pool. I had simply gone under the knife. And if you had seen me the weeks following the lift you would have assumed I had gone under a full set of Ginsu knives, such was my train wreck of a face.

I felt very strongly about being honest about my lift and have never been anything but. My thinking was that women, especially middle-aged women are already beating themselves up without worrying that someone of the same age looks better than they do ... or at least tighter. I know many women who have had lifts and they have sworn me to secrecy and I will keep their secret. I am not even judging them for wanting people to simply think they look better than other women our age. That is part of what makes their facelift resonate with them and that’s their beeswax. For me, full disclosure is more freeing. Any women who envies a facelift on face value and is given the truth can say, “Hey, I can do that too”. Or, “Not worth it to me, I’ll be happy with the way I look”.

I know that by now in the story, many of you are swiftly typing your responses, such is the emotions that facelifts bring about. And I totally see and appreciate all angles on this. I respect all points of view on this one because it is such an intimate choice. But I will tell you my personal take on the concept of facelifts. I subscribe to the SOMEBODY STOP ME rule of facelift. The thing is, you can do your nips, your tucks, or a full facelift, but have the words of The Mask, ringing in your ears. When you think of doing a second, third or forth, just call up your Somebody Stop Me! mantra.

My decision was to do it, and then age naturally. At least that is what I have stuck to for fourteen years and what I intend. I have aged of course, since then. And sagged a bit since then. But I am done. I am done because two things have happened in that fourteen years. I have started to look in the mirror and like what I see, and I have come to realize how very lucky I was to come out healthy and unscathed from elective surgery. I have appreciated that I gave myself the gift of elective surgery, but since then, I have seen too much necessary life saving surgery and I have grown to really appreciate how very lucky I was, and still am.

Sticking to the full disclosure theme, I will tell you my reasons for doing my facelift and how it left me feeling at the time and also 14 years later. I am very tiny-boned with a very tiny face and features. I had too much skin for my face. Even as a sleep deprived toddler, I sported big bags under my eyes in the morning. Family trait on my Mom’s side. After the boy was born and I had been big little big big big and little, my extra skin was aging me beyond my years. It was not helping me work-wise or esteem-wise. I interviewed many plastic surgeons, but only one asked me what I wanted to look like after the surgery. I did not even have to think about it. I wanted to look like a well-rested sparkling forty-five year old, which was my age at the time. And bless his skilled hands, that is exactly what I came out looking like. I don’t think I looked particularly younger but I don’t mind saying that I looked great. At our last appointment before my surgery, the surgeon did try to sway me towards cheek implants and botox as I am sadly lacking in both cheek and lips areas. But I said no. I said I wanted to look like a slightly taut but relaxed Deb. I felt that Mother Nature in her enthusiasm to give me all she could, went a tad overboard. Clearly that extra face skin was meant for a woman destined to reach five foot nine, not five foot nothing.

But in his defense, my surgeon did not want to pull my cheek skin back, as we so often see in Hollywood. He felt it was too pully, and that it made the mouth have that wide unnatural horizontal slash. So he asked instead if he could just inject a bit of fat from my butt into my face.  So we did that, forever giving me rights to the title of Assface. And I wear it proudly. No butts about it. You KNOW I had to go there.

As to the people in my life, my husband said he adored me the way I was, but knew I was hell bent so he supported me. My friends were divided on the idea and I am sure talked voraciously behind my back. As you may know I am a huge supporter of the “behind the back”. Gets the issue out, saves feelings. One friend said to me, “I have never seen one facelift that looked good.” My response was, “But you have seen hundreds of facelifts you did not know were facelifts”. She saw my point.  And I did it. And it was, outside of husband and boy, the best thing I have ever done. Ever. After the lift settled, I looked like me! I looked like the me I knew was there. I looked like the me I had strained to see in the mirror. And so now, I am an older version of Deb, but not 1954 Deb. I am an older version of Facelift Deb and I couldn’t be happier. I reckon that 1954 Deb gave Future Deb this gift.

And before I leave you, dear reader, and in the spirit of the Full Disclosure (shout out to Annette who got the ball rolling), I also had a breast job in 1980. Anyone who has seen photos of me on the blog is saying, “I knew it!!!!!”. But ironically you would be wrong. Truth be told, I had a major breast reduction. Yep. 1980. Grew back they did. Yep. But as I said before, an older and wiser Deb has not only made her peace. She has learned to love her body.

Can a woman say that old loud?

Barbara: Well, I say, yes we MUST say that out loud!! I love my body too. Not in that it looks like my dream body, but in that it is serving me well and I have made my peace.

As for the facelift disclosure: I admire your honesty, Deb. Yes, of course, I knew you’d had one—although we weren’t friends yet when you’d had it done—because that’s the kind of open person you are. Knowing you after the fact, I can fully confirm, it is EXCELLENT work. And the truth is, I used to think I would absolutely certainly get a facelift one day myself. But ironically, over the years, I’ve actually fully lost my appetite for it. Not because of you or your experience, but because of my own. I worry about the pain, about the afterward, about the cost, mostly about not recognizing myself. I want to really get used to this whole “loving myself for who I am/how I look” deal. I want to embrace it. But I am not immune to the lure of a shinier face: instead, I’ve invested much much much money into creams and facials. What’s the diff, I ask you?  

A Pause For The Cause In The Conversation

Deb: At this point in The Conversation I thought it might be wonderful to give a tip of the bonnet to those who came before us and paved the way for the rights and privileges we DO have.

Thank you, sisters!

Women's suffrage

U.S. women suffragists demonstrating for the right to vote, February 1913

Women's suffrage or woman suffrage[1] is the right of women to vote and to run for office. The expression is also used for the economic and political reform movement aimed at extending these rights to women and without any restrictions or qualifications such as property ownership, payment of tax, or marital status. The movement's modern origins can be attributed to late-18th century France.

Limited voting rights were gained by women in Sweden and some western U.S. states in the late 19th century.[2] International organizations were formed to coordinate efforts, especially the International Council of Women (1888) and the International Woman Suffrage Alliance (1904).[3] In 1893, New Zealand became the first nation to extend the right to vote to all adult women, and the women in South Australia achieved the same right in 1895 but became the first to obtain also the right to stand (run) for Parliament.[4][5] The first European country to introduce women's suffrage was the Grand Duchy of Finland—then a part of the Russian Empire with autonomous powers—which also produced the world's first female members of parliament as a result of the 1907 parliamentary elections.

In most Western nations woman suffrage came at the end of World War I, with some important late adopters such as France in 1944 and Switzerland in 1971.[6]

Women's suffrage has generally been recognized after political campaigns to obtain it were waged. In many countries it was granted before universal suffrage. Women’s suffrage is explicitly stated as a right under the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, adopted by the United Nations in 1979.

(From Wikipedia)

I think Glynis Johns said it best, in this great scene from Mary Poppins!

Talking The Talk: How I Look/How I Feel

Barbara: We’ve talked a lot here how we look and feel best, but since we’re focusing on The Conversation, I want to open it up a bit further. Where does the line hover for why we feel best at any give moment?

When I was thirteen I had just begun to wear makeup. I don’t remember it being a big deal, or my parents being against it. My mother was an active arts student at the time and relied on my independence, my dad probably teased me gently about the fact that I was growing up. What I do remember very clearly was my immediate sense that, as far as the big picture goes, I was somehow less when I wasn’t wearing it. It got so bad that I actually refused to be seen in public without it!

One particularly strong memory from that 13th year: my family was driving home from our cottage one lazy Sunday afternoon and my parents decided to stop at a roadside chips’ truck for a snack. I refused to get out of the car—because I WASN’T WEARING MAKEUP!! What did I think would happen? That the chip truck attendants would scoff at my slovenliness? That the teaming throng of hot young 13-year-olds would condemn me on sight because … I was wearing no mascara???!!! My parents, as you can imagine, were aghast. I huddled in the car, determined to keep up the bargain I had made with my self-slash-the devil.

It took many years of growing up to develop a sense that I was okay without makeup. Interestingly, I get as many compliments for my fresh-scrubbed look (“so natural!”) as I do for my makeupped version (“so nice!”). Rather more interesting, these compliments often come from two different sets of people. Hence, the certain sense that one man/woman’s idea of beauty is another man/woman’s “yeah, whatevs”.  To this day, I go without a second thought to the gym without a stitch of makeup, but when I get ready for my day—which is often midday!—I don’t think twice about applying my routine look: under-eye concealer, mascara, eyeliner (on inside of upper lashes), brow brush. If I’m getting more dressed up, say for an audition or a night out: the same, plus eye shadow, blush and lipstick (I never wear foundation).

I—get this—just feel better with that little bit of makeup. Even if I’m the exact same person. I want to know that if I catch my reflection somewhere—in a window, in a mirror—I look a certain way (ie a bit of pop in the eyes, not as much of a dark circle underneath). But the question remains: why do I feel better? Is it because I feel brighter? Or is it because of this engrained notion that my looks must be amplified in order for me to be valued?

I doubt my mind-set will ever change vis a vis my face and its adornments. I will always love a special outfit or a pretty necklace or a lovely fragrance. These things will always make me feel better, even if they don’t exactly “make me”. But why?

These are 2 photos from my files (I'd wanted to do a little session for you, but lost track of time). Sorry for the poor quality: they're with my computer camera, but they are reasonably similar in composition and timing. The first is not a stitch of makeup, at work at my computer, the second is my "day look" (but also showing off the gorgeous necklace a friend gave me).

PS As another point of interest, someone once asked Deb and I how we could dare show our non-makeupped faces on the blog. Not like an insult, but like a truly perplexed, couldn't-undestand-the-logic question. Obviously there was a time when I would NOT! But no more. This is me, baby.

Deb: When I think of makeup it always amuses me that it was men who first started wearing it and women who ended up getting stuck with it! :-) As for me, I am not an obsessed makeup gal either. Like Barb, I will go out without it. When I am in my ‘hood, just shopping around and doing chores, I more than often go out without any at all. I am fine with my naked face and quite comfortable with it. When I am in the house for the day doing house chores, I never wear makeup, but I certainly do my face for events and for anything social. Like Barb, I do not dramatically change my look. It does help to have long black eyelashes and that makes it easy when I am sporting the natural look. As to why we feel better with makeup, I don’t know. I guess it’s because we sat at our mother’s dressing tables as tots while they put on their faces and thought how glamourous it was and how pretty they looked. It was a right of passage, this makeup. Made us feel grown up. And when I am getting ready to go out on a date with my husband and I see a little colour on my cheeks and lips and the depth of my eyes popping, I feel pretty. Can’t help it. I like the naked faced Deb in the mirror, but I also love to see my “Sunday go to meeting face”. 

Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Miss Representation

Barbara: This is an extended version of the impressive video about how women are portrayed in the media in North America. I saw the shorter version on FB a few months ago and then Sean’a sent around the extended trailer. This is definitely apropos here this week. Take a look. Let us know what you think.

Talking the Talk In The Conversation: Calling Our Men!

Barbara: I was talking to my dad the other day. My dad is awesome. He’s always been my biggest fan and reads the blog religiously. If he goes away on a trip, then he reads the ones he missed when he was gone. At the very beginning, and once he got the hang of it, he commented a couple of times, but then he got a bit self-conscious: not because he was a man commenting on our blog, but because he was my father and it might be deemed … inappropriate. You know, like when your parents find your diary or something. Funnily, this is the same feeling I’ve sometimes felt from other random people. We’ll get to talking and they’ll mention the blog and they’ll look a bit sheepish, really as though they’ve seen something they maybe shouldn’t have. But, hey, we blog because we think. We want you to peek inside. And so I’ve always shushed my father and told him to go ahead and post comments. And besides we love men over here, fathers especially, and we want them to feel they belong here too. Middle age is for everyone (sorry if that’s a shock), and middle-aged women affect everyone. It’s a fact of life.

So my father challenged me to call out our men. We know you’re reading because sometimes you’ll pop in, or you might message us privately, or you might mention it at a get-together. And here’s the thing: this isn’t a private girls’ club. I know those exist (and maybe must) as do the boys’ clubs (again, no judgment: we sometimes need the safety of private forums). But here we THRIVE on discourse. We love to skew a point of view this way and that until we get a broader sense of things. You guys might have different prisms through which we can look, or you can remind us that we ALL worry about the same things, not just those of us in the female orbit. We value our men. We count on your wisdom, your support, your sense of things.

So the question is: would you stand up here and be counted? Would you let us know what you think—even if you don’t agree with us? We know if you’re reading this that you are compassionate and temperate. If you don’t agree with something, or if you have a slightly different take, we won’t be offended (we only get offended at rudeness).

But most importantly, if over these next few weeks we are taking on The Conversation, if we’re examining how women are being portrayed in the media and how women’s sense of self is compromised or diminished because of it, if we want to change that, and even if we women are to blame for much of it, don’t you think you guys deserve a place at the table, a voice in the discussion?

We want to hear what you think about this stuff. We want your ideas and thoughts. Even if it means we’re forced to accept a “difficult truth” (yes, men do look at “shiny objects”), it helps get us all closer to the real truth (but they usually don’t mistake that for love, or even lust).

So I hope you’ll speak up today. I hope you’ll join us in our search for balance.

I’ll start off by throwing out a specific question—that of course, I’m still hoping our female readers will weigh in on. What do you think of the pervasive sexualization of women in the media? Does it have a subtle, shifting impact on how boys and men (and girls and women) look at women? Or is it harmless fun that doesn’t actually filter into our private expectations or our bedrooms? This isn’t a trick question, I swear! In its simplest sense, many men I know truly prefer their beloved woman fresh-faced, no makeup, no fancy clothes, despite the fact that it’s the rare media image that portrays a woman like that. So what do you think?

Deb: There was an article yesterday in the Globe and Mail entitled “Thinking Outside the Boxers” and it was basically raising this question: “with so much porn and negative portrayals of women in the media, does it affect a young boy’s view of sex and relationships?”. Are these young boys poised to treat women like objects? I was thinking about it from both sides, this very interesting question. I also wondered if some young women start to act the way they think is expected of them, which is why everywhere I turn, in television and the media at large, the skank meter is up to 11. I got to thinking about my own son and his friends and cousins that I know well. They are, of course, exposed to these things but I think a greater force is at work which prevents them from painting all women with the same glitter body paint. I think they see by example in their homes and the homes of their friends how a real man treats a real women and how a real woman treats a real man. They learn by example, respect, and equality. This way they are able to see porn for exactly what it is, and whether or not they engage in watching this type of thing, they are aware of its place in the grand scheme of things. It is not a real way of life. To a degree, it is theatre. Smart boys know this. So do smart girls. 

Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Women Dress for Women

Deb: In our ongoing conversation about women and our self-esteem or lack thereof, I started thinking about the source of it. I started wondering what makes us change and nip and tuck and fix and futz with our looks. And more to that point, I started wondering who we do it for.

As opposed to popular thinking, most women do not dress for men. Most women dress for women. I think we have done this for centuries. And along those lines I think that women get “work” done for other women, with the possible exception of breasts. I think a large part of the plastic movement is done to impress our own gender. I think we need to look good for other women and, as a result, we might just be doing each other in. Eating our own as it were.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if every woman would look to a friend who is aging or is less than perfect and say,  “You look great.” There is an oft bandied about phrase which goes, “A smile is your best accessory.” But the truth is, it is! If we feel good about ourselves we look great. Inner beauty has gotten a bad rap for being, well ... inner beauty. Yet there is nothing “inner” about it. If we nail the inner, the outer comes along for the ride.

The world is obsessed with “hot”. We have this burning desire to look “hot”.

What is hot? Really. Isn’t hot chemical? Isn’t hot in the eyes of the beholder? Can we possibly sustain this media image of hot? No one friggin can. But between the “hot” flashes we can, in no particular order, look lovely, pretty, cute, gorgeous, rested, sparkling, happy, sexy, engaged, spirited graceful and ... handsome. I have always been miffed at the use of “handsome woman” as a derogatory term. Some of the most attractive and sexy women I have known have been “handsome”, for the record.

I think Ashley Judd was spectacular, strong and poised in her rebuttal. But thinking forward, what would happen if we all just stopped caring? I know, I know ... but I think we have to spend more time changing our own perceptions of ourselves. And we need to spend conscience time doing this. Like ... equal to Facebook time. We worry too damn much about what others think of us. And people in the public eye have the added worry of what the media thinks of them and as a result, the world.

But here’s the thing. Maybe we have to accept what we cannot change. Because we can’t change what people say publicly or privately about us. But we can change what we put out there. And in the end, the only logical answer is to stop taking the bait. And maybe by doing that, we will change it.

In the meantime, we must find a way to fall in love with the image we see in the mirror. WE MUST! Remember that others do not see what we see. I have a friend who wants to get her neck done. I get it. I see that she has a little middle-aged chin thing going on there. And I admit that when she points it out, I see that. But that is the only time I ever see it. What I usually see is her heartstoppingly beautiful face. And I am not just saying that to ease her saggy chin pain. She is beautiful. But she sees the neck. I know. I have been there. Full disclosure in a later blog.

But the truth is, in the last little while I have worked consciously to not only make my peace with, but to embrace my imperfections. I have been diligent in my attempts to banish them from my psyche. Or at the very least form a truce with them. I have decided to do the best I can with what I have. Because I am aging. We all are.

Jennifer Aniston is going to be an old woman some day.

And it’s not like we weren’t told. This is the life we expected. Getting old was in the offing from the get-go.  And yet we seem shocked and panicked by it. And the media rants and the media belittles and the media mocks.

And they do this because they know that we believe them. And in the meantime we hope they will change.

But I think it’s us who have to.

Barbara: Oooh, so many juicy points here I want to respond to. First off, when you mention how most women dress for women, I know you’re so right. I mean, there is some stuff I wear for Phil, but in the every day sitch, I’m thinking more about “fashion” and “trend” and “style” than I am about, well, sex.

As soon as I read this, I remembered a moment earlier today when I was standing in a bookstore in front of the magazine aisle and a young woman stopped not too far from me—and I was tired and so maybe not as conscious as I would normally be. But I suddenly realized I had literally been eying her up and down for several very looooooong minutes. I am sure—given that my relaxed face now looks (okay, okay, in my mind’s eye, Deb, but I am sure in real life too!) like I am an angry, judgmental bitch— that anyone passing must have assumed I was secretly lambasting her, cutting her up, cutting her down. But the truth is, my face looks like that when it is relaxed!!! And I was absolutely LOVING her outfit. I wanted to drink it in. I wanted to memorize it. She looked amazing. But betchya anything she would’ve been shocked and outraged at my blatant staring, and surely would have misconstrued my utter lack of intent. So there’s that.

But I do also want to say that I take up the noble and brave gauntlet you’ve thrown: that we need to be aware of how we judge our physical selves so very harshly—and that we need to STOP IT. If we go along with the old credo that the media likes to scare us, then them openly playing to our insecurities would surely fit in with that, right? Let’s take away that power. Let’s take our own power back.

Can we do it??? 

Walking The Walk In The Conversation: Annette Shares Her Adventure With Cosmetic Treatments

Annette posted this message to a bunch of us on Facebook the other day (after, btw, she’d linked us to the Ashley Judd article—talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous ;-) ) and we asked her if we could post it here. Always generous, Annette (“gredican” in our comments section) couldn’t wait for us to laugh at her pain. This is the next of our series of posts about women as part of The Conversation.

Annette: O.K. ... as I have the most disconcerting habit of inadvertently scheduling "medical” stuff back to back, I followed up Monday's awful mammogram—that left me bruised and sore after I was twisted and pulled well beyond my range of mobility—with another appointment  yesterday. This one saw me forgoing mindfulness about my health for an encounter with a Doctor that was cosmetically-motivated.

We have an extended vacation in San Diego and Las Vegas approaching and I had determined that I needed to tackle the spider veins that have begun to map themselves on my thighs. I don't have a lot of them but my considerable vanity over what independent sources have deemed my well-turned ankles saw the offending veins bother me in a manner disproportionate to their appearance. Hence, I decided, after mulling it over on and off forever, to have them removed via the injection of a solution that causes them to collapse and fade away.

I checked the cost on the U.S. side of the border and learned that a treatment was about $400.00 and that you need several. (Full disclosure: I had this done after my son was born—22 years ago—and had not been troubled until the last couple of years with their reappearance. But suffice to say, I know the drill.) Put off by the significant expense, I decided to research what it would cost in Canada and was thrilled to learn it would only be $70.00 per session plus $50.00 for the original consultation as I no longer have Ontario health insurance.

Which is how I came to find myself laying face-down, trying not to put weight on my still-smarting and bruised right breast, on an examining table with an ever-so-capable, twenty-five-years-experienced, Niagara Falls, Ontario-based Doctor administering the first treatment of 50 injections to my less-than-toned thighs...

Now I need to digress here for a minute and explain that prior to the appointment I grabbed a late lunch in Ontario by way of killing time before the encounter with our capable practitioner. If you've known me for any length of time, you may recall that men who are down on their luck are inflamed by the sight of me. Ever since I was a little girl, I've had them go off ... totally off ... whenever I've so much as crossed their line of sight. Long ago I gave up trying to understand it.

So yesterday, I was in a Tim Horton's, a phenomenally popular chain of doughnut shops and as innocuous a location as you can imagine, when I heard a commotion. I looked up from my egg salad sandwich and my clearly provocative copy of the new Woman's Day and just had time to think "Oh here we go!" before a homeless guy barged in shouting the odds, modified with tons of profanity, having spotted the irritant that is me through the plate glass. I was gathering my wits to shut him down when he spewed, "You effin' little wh*re of sex toy!" So impressed was I with his dazzling imagery, I almost bought him a coffee rather than giving him a taste of his own verbal abuse but just made a quick escape instead.

But I return us now to the examining table ... I had failed to recall that while most of the injections sting rather than hurt, a number of them proved painful indeed. I tried unsuccessfully to keep count so I could gauge when the unpleasantness might end while giving distracted thought as to whether the ordeal would ultimately be worth it. I was musing over the whole “getting older, expectations for women thing, our female reluctance to go gently-into-that-good-night and its attendant pressure” while the Doctor meanwhile busied himself ripping off huge strips of surgical tape which he used to adhere a giant cotton ball, applied with considerable pressure, to each injection site. When this, the first of three or four treatments ended, he wrapped my now pulsating thighs in thick tensor band-aids leaving my legs, under my trousers, looking as if one of Hollywood's best had fashioned me a fat suit.

It was then I realized two things ... the tensor bandages made it all but impossible to bend my knees, and also that surgical tape is called that because it has a scalpel-like edge which will slice flesh quite handily if you attempt to crook knees when they are wrapped in it. Now all of this could have been put down to a painful lesson learned ... save for the yet-to-come drive home which included a crossing at an International Border heavily manned with people trained to look for the out-of-the ordinary ... say … just as a for instance ... a woman wearing a from-the-waist-down fat suit who can't bend her knees.

Swinging my legs the way you did when playing Monster with a gleeful child, that is say tossing them in an arc to complete a step, I made my way to my car. I have to tell you as I awkwardly endeavored to hoist myself into my crossover vehicle, encumbered by my somewhat useless limbs, I did not bear any resemblance to an "effin little wh*re of sex toy"! Nope ... I did not! Further, I quickly realized that driving while unable to bend one's knees is a challenge indeed.  I had to push the seat all the way back which left my arms completely straight. Picture a stuffed animal with its permanent arms and legs extended pose and you'll get the idea ... In addition to the disconcerting visuals and obvious safety concerns, every depression of the gas pedal or brake caused the surgical tape to behave like Christina on Grey's Anatomy and slice with unencumbered delight deeply and decisively into my punctured flesh.

 At this point, the offending veins, in what I took to be some sort of an objection to the solution pulsing through them, began to burn as if gasoline was flowing through my circulatory system. And so it was that when I approached the border, my face was contorted in a combination mask of pain/feigned normalcy. (It had occurred to me upon approach that should the guards’ suspicions be raised, they would likely make me remove the bandages and that the fresh 'tracks'  from fifty hypodermics would not win me any dispensation with those charged with protecting our borders.)

Sure enough, you'll be pleased to know that our tax dollars have been spent such that the official took one look at me and, his expensive training artfully serving him, asked me to exit the vehicle. "F*ck", I whispered under my breath as I swung my tree trunks to the side and awkwardly hopped out. I saw the young man cast a sidelong glance as he took in my misshapen thighs and, after a moment's indecision, he did the kind thing and searched the vehicle believing, I'm certain, that I had the worst case of cellulite ever seen in Niagara county.

Finally, after hitting every red light therefore finding it necessary to depress the brake constantly, I made it home where I just had to kill time till 10 p.m. when I could remove the offending tensors. After some experimentation, I found the least uncomfortable position was lying flat out on the floor, which is how I spent the five hours, watching the clock the way you do when you are in labor, until the bandaging could be removed. The removal of that tape, with its glue that would probably hold stuff firm in a Level 4 hurricane, is yet another story, but allow me to say I hacked at it with abandon using garden-shear sized scissors such was my desire to get it off me.

So ... what have we learned about vanity and the suffering that we are willing to endure for it? Well, I can't speak for any of you … but I might just start paying a bit more attention to Jamie Lee Curtis and her frequent rants about her abhorrence for the artificial things women do in pursuit of looking good as we age... “Might,” I say ... at least after my next three treatments. Whatever thoughtful consideration I entertain though, I’ll certainly be careful not to cross my milky-white, unlined thighs and risk causing fresh spider veins while I do it!

To your days I leave you ... Fondly, Annette