Desperate for botox | New York

First I got Botox about eight years ago, in a spa Med in a busy, bad area of ​​the 49th highway in Placer County, California. On my way there, I read the folk of the Church, but an endogenously frightening warning of the dangers of non -faith in Jesus and a sticker bumper who claimed that “weapons do not kill clinical abortions.” Then I didn’t know any Botox clinic near my home, in Nevada County, where land recognitions were made before the art-house movie screenings and bumper stickers are more likely to report Mary Oliver or Osho. So close, so far, Placer County, where Blue Lives Matter meets Balayage, felt like the right place to artificially return my face to a state of more conventional youthful attractiveness.

Now, in the mid -1950s, the level of torture I put on myself deciding whether to get this initial Botox treatment seems positively adorable. Many women I knew had gone to the same clinic and examined their faces to make sure the improvements they had achieved were thin but significant. I was wondering the receptionist of the clinic for my provider’s credentials. I made an appointment three weeks earlier, I wouldn’t want to show it in the end. But I did it.

The office was like an Airbnb running through a “women love this” ai filter -thick floors, cream chairs and texture neutral curtains. With a little vanilla spice tea and an Elin Hilderbrand novel I could have been curtained in the waiting room for hours. I completed a form that included an exhortation that encourages me to share other things about my face and body that I didn’t like. We ordered the exhortation and wrote: “Please don’t ask me about the rest of my face or body, because I will just cry to do the GD Pls lines.”

The trainee was what I would come to recognize as a Botox nurse from central casting: blonde, slim, with c cups as compact as mixing bowls and huge marriage and dedication complexes. Because of what she had done on her face, she was indefinable. It had botox, yes, but also the fillers and the things that destroy fat, double chin-exminator. We had a different aesthetic and we probably had completely different tastes in the media, friendships and men. If it had a slogan against aging, it was “learning all available technologies”. If I had one, it was “absolutely doing things, but make sure it’s thin, because probably worse than looking bigger seems to seem desperately to appear younger”. The challenge for her, I imagined, was to avoid telling me that smoothing my medium was a joke, as my whole face was in a quick retreat from his glorious past. The challenge for me, if he said that – though of course he would say it more beautifully – he wouldn’t have to shout back something like “thank you, but I don’t get beauty tips from people with a bull.” But what you join was more important than what separates us. Both were young, and both were out there, in modern America, trying to get some respect/push in our selected communities.

For her faith, she was restrained in her recommendations. He asked if I knew I had some over -coloring. I laughed and told her about the moment my friend’s father interrupted a quiet meal one night with the sharp observation: “You have a very dark patch next to your eye, do you know about it?” I said, “Yes, do you know about hormones?” Then we all continued to eat.

This anecdote had no reaction. Botox nurses want to add more expensive procedures, not tell them hilarious true stories. So I were Aware of this over -coloring, he said. I wanted to do anything about it? Yes, of course I did. I wanted to eliminate the over -color from my face, my body and the planet. I also wanted each of my breasts to weigh a pound less and be an inch and a half higher on my chest. I wanted my hair to look like they come from Jimmy’s Sable Coat Emporium instead of Bob’s Discount Carpets. I wanted, about eight years from now, to see “nosferatu”, and, when the character title expanded his dried hand, whispering to my friend, “Fun Fact, I was a double hand for this movie” and to answer, “stop, girl, you are beautiful” instead of laughing. The nurse put me in. I paid.

Within seven days, the lines of the middle of me really left and I was looking for forty -one or forty two instead of forty -six or forty -seven, because when you are that age it should do the good botox. I also felt a deep sadness coming over me like a storm, or, rather, blooming inside me as if I had been injected with a toxin. I went “Botox depression” and found, inevitably, a suspicion of connection: obviously, since I couldn’t smile rightly, people didn’t smile back to me. I decided not to go back to Botox again. The exchange of smiles seemed more important than the achievement of beauty: the thinking of a fool.

Years later, I again felt the same terrible feeling and realized that these post-botox dooldrums had real relationship issues with my friend. But in this case there were some unexpected good news: I could get Botox again.

Until there, I knew about a Botox position in the city of Nevada. I even knew the owner, because we were former yoga professionals who fell into some mistrust when his most important professional was revealed to be a sexual predator. I thought she had done things on her face. I couldn’t place this, but I knew I was admired rather than being afraid of her approach. He informed me that, at this point on my journey, the lines between my eyebrows were deep and that it could only do so much and that – though it was more than happy to remove the suggestions – the botox in the corners of my eyes could also be useful. “Visually,” he added, as if there was another arena in which we could work together.

So I started getting botox between my eyebrows, as well as a very small amount –ok, I’m lied to, I have no idea if it was a small amount – at my raven feet. I’ve done it for about three years now. After fighting for a long time to save my relationship, it’s over anyway, and I’m glad he did. My ex was significantly younger than me and began dating someone his age. This felt depressed at the beginning, until I started dating even younger than my ex. It’s not that I prefer younger men. I really don’t. It’s just the ones who hit me. In any case, I am sure that my last relationship was not over and that my new one did not start because of the presence or absence of lines on my forehead.

I am generally in what people want to call “a good place”. But this sense of prosperity is interrupted not long before I was out of the city, visiting friends in North Carolina, and I realized that my botox was worn. It was close to Thanksgiving, a time of year, when many people, among themselves, are starting to worry about being publicly impressive. I needed a little more botox immediately.

“You’ll never be able to get an appointment,” a friend told me, after confirming that my botox was actually gone. “You may be able to take one in a shitty place where you go out with an eye closed and an eye open. But you don’t want this.”

My friend didn’t understand what I wanted. I am selective of wine, movies, jewelry and colored, but I had begun to see botox in the way I have long seen beer, café and gynecologist – which is, respectively, if it is cold, if it wakes me up and if it can scrape my cells from my neck. Look, if there was a problem with my neck at some point, I would try to find a doctor at the peak of female health, someone unlike the gynecologist I went for most of my thirty, who mumbled and smelled cigarettes and worked by a Los Feliz building. Don’t mind me having this man’s fingers inside me? I had worse.