Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause

Smile and Say Botox

I’ll just come right out and admit it, I’ve had Botox.

I know what you’re thinking: “Great, another vain woman caving into societal pressure to look younger.” But my decision to jump onto the Botox bandwagon had less to do with “caving in” and more to do with “continuing to have a career.” It may seem a slight difference to you, but it is significant nonetheless, at least to me and my mortgage lender. You see, my face is important to my career. No, I’m not a mime, although imagine how pronounced frown lines would be with white cake make-up though. Now there’s an occupational group with legitimate reasons to go for the Botox.

When I’m not sitting at home writing and opening and closing the door for the dogs, I am a humorous motivational speaker and stand-up comic. It’s hard for me to get up on stage and tell an audience how to get in touch with their inner child when my face looks like its channeling my inner older person. So Botox was really a career move. At least that’s what I told the IRS.

You could come up with your own totally reasonable excuse for having some work done. Perhaps a younger looking face will help you get that big promotion you deserve but won’t get if you look like you’ll need nap breaks during executive meetings. Perhaps your crows’ feet spell out your ex’s name when seen from afar. I’m sure you can come up with something believable. Besides, thirty-somethings get Botox all the time. They’re so afraid of looking their age, which is silly, considering we’re the ones who look their age.

I didn’t have my procedure done at one of those Botox parties you may have read about in the paper or women’s magazines. There are certain things I don’t enjoy doing at parties – disco dancing, buying lingerie, pretending to be able to tell “French Vanilla” and “Plain Vanilla” candles apart, holding a breast pump and not mentioning how painful it looks…  Having needles stuck into my face ranks right at the top of the list. Besides, I live in a small town. The closest thing I could find to a Botox party was some suspect chicken being served at my neighbor’s barbecue.

You may also be considering jumping into the Botox chair yourself and you may wonder what it’s really like to go “under the needle.” I’m going to tell you. Because if I share my experiences with you in print, then I can not only write off my Botox, I can profit from it! Now that’s what I call win-win. I’d smile if I could.

Let me address some of the most common questions:

1. Does it hurt? Yes, a little. If I had to rank the pain between stubbing your toe and birthing a ten pound baby, I’d put it closer to stubbing your toe. Not that I have any experience whatsoever with the latter, although I have been told long, long, long, horrible stories by women, including my mother. If you’ve ever had your bikini area waxed, you’ll find Botox injections no big deal at all. In fact, if you have both procedures done at the same time, they’ll probably just cancel each other out pain-wise.

2. How long does it take to see results? I got a huge bruise around my right eye immediately, but I bruise easily because I’m pale and somehow have extra veins and capillaries. The good results started showing up around the fourth day post-injection, just as my bruise was turning a pale yellow. My crows’ feet and scowl lines had definitely softened. When I asked my husband for the third day in a row if he noticed anything new, he asked if I’d lost weight. So I know it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.

3. Is it true you can’t move your facial muscles afterward? No. You can move them, much in the way an ant can move a rubber tree plant. I emceed a comedy show five days after my treatment and laughed and laughed. Afterward my face was actually tired. Like I’d been lifting weights with my eyebrows and my cheeks had run a half-marathon. And I noticed that squinting to read the small print on things was much harder; but since that’s what led to a lot of my problems in the first place, maybe I should just act like a grown-up and wear my glasses.

4. What does it feel like in the days following the Botox injections? My best description is “heavy.” I felt like I’d had an eyebrow transplant from Cro-Magnon man. Part of this could be that I had my procedure done just as the trees started to bloom in my neighborhood and my allergies kicked in. But there was definitely a feeling that I might have to push my head around in a wheelbarrow.

5. Does it work? In my case, absolutely. I look like I’m seven and three-quarter years younger. When I put my hair in a tight ponytail, I look seven and three-quarters. Except for the wattle under my chin. I tried putting it in a ponytail, but I may have to have some work done there too.

6. How often do you need to do it? The doctor, who, by the way, administers his own Botox injections, said for most people, it’s every three to six months, but that often after eighteen months or so, the muscles may start to relax on their own and you don’t need Botox as often. I guess it’s like obedience training a dog. Eventually, your eye brows and cheek muscles sit and stay on their own.

7. How much did it cost? For my twelve injections (three above each brow and three around the corners of my eyes), the cost was a little over $500. So, if I do this every three months, that will be 2000 smackers a year. I may not be able to squint or frown, but I can still multiply. I guess I’ll have to cancel the cable and learn to live without air conditioning.

8. Will you do it again? Honestly, I don’t know yet. I’m highly trainable and am hoping that instead of waiting a year and a half, my face starts to behave on its own right away. I’m planning to make a motivational tape I can listen to at night while I’m asleep that repeats over and over, “Your face is youthful and line-free. Not to mention that you now speak fluent French.”

9. Do you feel at all guilty about refusing to look your age? No! I work my body out every day with the goal of not looking my age, so why should my face be any different? I’ve tried to get my face up on the elliptical trainer, but it always balks.

10. Couldn’t I get the same results with duct tape? Probably, if you had it applied by a duct tape professional. But I’ve heard they’re just as pricey.

There you have it. Everything you needed to know about Botox. I hope. I can’t actually read what I’ve written here because I usually squint to see my monitor.

Don't Do the Math

         

 

I remember when my medicine chest was full of fun stuff like perfume, eyeliner, and Rolling Stones concert tickets I was hiding from my parents. Today though, it’s mostly full of lotions and creams with the phrase “anti-aging” somewhere on the label (usually it’s the only thing in a type size I can read).

There in the right hand corner next to my hair mousse (I use mousse instead of spray because saying “mousse” to my friends makes me feel hip) are two bottles of stuff, one that guarantees to “reduce the signs of aging by 61% in one week” and one that guarantees “84% more youthful skin in three days.” I wonder if I mix the two, can I actually turn back time and look like I did in a previous life? Maybe when I was Cleopatra.

My math skills may be a little rusty, but here’s the equation I came up with. In one week, I should be 61% + 84% +84% + (84% divided by 3) = 257% younger than before I rubbed on either of the creams! Let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m 51. (I will deny that on a stack of anti-aging product instructions in a court of law). A 257% reduction in my age would be, uh… okay… I’m stuck. It’s probably an imaginary number. Those always stumped me. My best guess is that I’d be minus 67 and a half years old. Does that sound right to you? Heck, I’m probably too young to even be driving yet. Much less worrying about crows’ feet.

The problem is – I mean besides my inability to do higher level math – for the past month I have been mixing these two anti-aging products together, along with five others that guarantee other kinds of results (from “Regain your youthful complexion” to “We promise you’ll never see your mother in the mirror!”). Remarkably, I haven’t noticed any real changes of any kind. I still have laugh lines, frown lines, and carry-on bags under my eyes. Thank heavens, the limit is two.

When I look at my face closely in the mirror lately, I don’t see anything at all. Until I take off my contact lenses so I can see that close up. Then I see pores the size of potholes. But that’s only because I have to use one of those magnifying mirrors that makes everything look ten times bigger than it is. I tried holding the magnifying mirror up to my checkbook one day hoping it would have the same effect. It didn’t.

When my face finally does come into focus, I can see some patches of dry flaky skin, a broken capillary on the side of my nose that showed up after my last two-week cold, the scar where I jumped from my high chair as a toddler, a few extra layers of peach fuzz above my lip (I forgot to duct-tape them off last week), etc. It’s the face of a woman who has been there, done that, and laughed, frowned, and squinted her way through it all.

I don’t expect miracles from the miracle products in my medicine cabinet. I know that no matter what type of math I use, even in the metric system my face is pretty much my face, no matter what I put on it. But I would like to be able to smear on a cream and say truthfully, “I think I see a 22% reduction in fine lines around my mouth this morning.” Especially considering that just one of these bottles recently reduced my weekly income by more than 22%.

My husband has an explanation for why my anti-aging stuff isn’t doing its job. He thinks that rather than working together to increase the number of years I can wipe off the face of my face, the mixed products are counteracting one another. In his math, by adding the 61% cream to the 84% cream, I actually should look 23% older. He thinks I should stop mixing stuff together.

He could be right. I guess I should just choose one and see how good of a job it does on its own. But how will I spend my free time? Hey, I wonder what would happen if I mixed his Rogaine with my Nair…

Check out my latest book, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause, available at bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.

Have U Seen the Kids?

 I don’t have kids. Even with three marriages under my belt, I never inherited any along the way either – unless, of course, you count husband number two. And believe me, I do.

Maybe I AM selfish and self-centered, as a woman once told me when I politely asked her if she could please move her giant race car shopping cart filled with three young children to one side of the aisle so I could get to the coffee. Who came up with the idea for these giant plastic race car things anyway? They’re almost as big as the SUVs out in the parking lot that transport the hordes of children to the grocery store.

 

Now you’ve undoubtedly come to the conclusion that I don’t like children. That’s just silly. Children are people and I don’t dislike people. I don’t just LIKE them because they ARE children. I’m as picky when it comes to my younger friends as with my older friends. Just because you’re two and have blonde hair and innocent-looking eyes doesn’t mean I’m going to fall for you. You’ve got to enjoy peek-a-boo and be able to participate in a stare-down without hiding behind your mom’s legs. And it doesn’t hurt if your nose isn’t running.

I have maternal instincts, I just take them out on my dogs. And yes, I know it’s not the same, as Oprah always makes sure to add when she compares herself as a dog mom to “real” moms.

 

Maybe it was the seventeen years of raising my brothers and sisters when my father was “between wives” that dulled my hearing when my biological clock started ringing. Although I think really what I had was a biological calendar. Once in my twenties, my thirties, and my forties, I briefly entertained the notion of becoming a mom. But I also entertained the notion of becoming an astronaut, a ballerina, a back-up singer for The Eagles, and Secretary of the Interior, and I didn’t pursue any of those either. Perhaps my main problem is I procrastinate too much.

In my thirties, I actually attempted to have a baby. I went through the “lie on your back with your legs up in the air for thirty minutes after sex” routine, followed by the “take these hormones we usually reserve for dairy cows” routine, and all the way up to “we have a Petri dish with your name on it” routine. That’s where I drew the line. I’m weird enough to think that if my getting pregnant requires equipment from the old chemistry set I had in junior high, maybe I’m not supposed to have kids. Besides, Petri is what I had been planning to name the baby.

My then-husband, who was twenty-seven at the time, had his sperm tested. It passed mobility and quantity with flying colors, but failed geometry and American history. He offered to take the test several more times during the course of our baby-making attempts. I think they had better porn at the fertility clinic that he had at home.

 

When I went in, the tests weren’t so fun. I remember one particular episode in which they injected dye into my uterus and then took pictures. I don’t know about you, but my uterus is not photogenic, even on good days. As a result, she’s shy and tends to try to hide behind my kidneys when the flashbulbs go off. So when none of the x-rays actually showed anything uterus-like, a medical person whom I have referred to every day since as “Satan’s Little Helper,” told me to hold still while she “straightened out my uterus” with a pair of forceps. If your own uterus just shriveled up to the size of a pea at that last sentence, I don’t have to explain to you just how painful that was. In fact, I consider it second in my all time most painful life moments. Number one was getting something pierced that shouldn’t have a hole in it. I’ll just let your imagination run wild.

 

They sent me home that day with a lovely photo of my tilted uterus and told me there was a distinct possibility I’d never get pregnant. I still have that photo. In a frame on my desk.

So we couldn’t have kids the natural way. We talked for a while about adopting, but I wanted organic, free-range children and he kept falling for girls about twelve. I may be dense, but I can see trouble when it jumps up and slaps me in the uterus. I said no to adoption until my husband was done growing up. Which hadn’t happened by the time we got divorced and he moved back in with his mother.

The best part about not having children or grandchildren, is that there’s no one around who can prove that I’m older than I look. And the dogs, they’re not talking.

Stop Pulling Your Hair Out

Wanna do something besides pull your hair out (which is, by the way, very cooling) over hot flashes, mood swings, and other midlife issues? Laugh. Go on, I dare you! If you can't get started, maybe picking up a copy of my brand new book, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause, will help get the funny ball rolling. Available everywhere. Well except in men's rooms.

Eggsactly

While waiting in line at Subway, I overheard a woman say to her friend, “My doctor says my waning sex drive is due to lack of testosterone.” The same appeared to be true of the guy making the sandwiches, but he didn’t seem that worried. Despite the fact that his moustache was skimpier than hers.

But really, when are hormones not a huge topic of conversation for women? When you are thirty, you have to deal with cramps, irritability, PMS (Pardon My Shouting), swollen breasts, the swollen egos of men attracted to your swollen breasts, cysts, fear of pregnancy, fear of not being pregnant, fear your dog is pregnant, etc. So thinking about hormones doesn’t change from our thirties to our fifties, it’s just the specifics. Now I worry less about me being knocked up than my daughter. Well I would if I’d remembered to have a daughter. Apparently the memory loss thing isn’t that new.

In my own personal hormonal journey through life, I stopped having periods at age forty-seven and a half (I’m holding that up in fingers, can you see it?) Hurray! I thought, My childbearing years are over and I can finally buy that Harley and join a motorcycle gang. Then I remembered I hate motorcycles and that I’m not really that attractive with bugs in my teeth, but at least I was free to buy one of the damned things if I wanted to.

At that moment however, I moved into a new hormonal phase, one I call “Don’t Pet the Sweaty,” because most of the time I’m as wet as a cat caught in a thunderstorm and just as delightful to be around. Sure, it’s not fun, but neither was having to spend four nights a month drinking tequila shots to help me ignore the pain of my periods. And yes, I did have to drink. It wasn’t an option. Ask my ex.

In this new hormonal phase, instead of worrying about birth control or not having a tampon when I need it, my worries have shifted to mood swings, hot flashes, and, yes, occasional dryness down there. (For which the remedy is lube. Just do it and get on with your life. You oil up your frying pan before you use it and the frying pan doesn’t feel all asexual and guilty, so why should you?)

Anyway, back to my hormones…After two years and one month of delicious unprotected, unshackled sex – except on “Handcuff Saturday” nights – my body decided to have one last period. Ta-da! Someone must have opened the refrigerator and found an egg way in the back behind the cottage cheese and that can of cherries I “put up” in that fifteen minute domestic phase I had when Martha went to prison and I felt someone had to step in and keep her spirit alive on the home front. That egg had been there for years, lying around, not causing anybody any harm, until one day my body decided to crack it open and make an omelet. I had cramps and bloating for a few days before and my first thought was Oh my god I’ve got a horrible disease! My brain didn’t even register that this was a period. My “friend” had been gone so long I couldn’t recognize her face. Or that throbbing ache when she kicked me in the ovaries. In fact, I’d forgotten I still had ovaries. When I was thirty, I could point to them in my sleep.

Of course, eventually I put two and two together, with the help of my lovely husband who dropped by and asked “So, you on the rag again or what?”

In one fell swoop, I went from post-menopausal back to perimenopausal. I immediately called my doctor. I was sure he’d want to know what had happened so he could write me up as a case study for the Journal of Reproductive Science, The Swimsuit Edition. But do you know what he said? “Well, it’s not uncommon!” Well  hell, it is uncommon for me, and really when it comes down to my hormones, it IS all about me. He told me to avoid hot baths in stranger’s hotel rooms, swimming in golf course water hazards, and unprotected downhill skiing. Actually, he didn’t issue any warning at all. He just said “Hmm, I’ll make a note on your chart.” Like I had just told him my hangnail was better or something.

My husband, on the other hand, has gotten all excited. He keeps rolling over in the middle of the night and whispering, “Hey, you want to make a baby?” Not because he wants one, but because he likes to see me freak out. The thing is, if I don’t have a period next month, do I worry about pregnancy or do I just go back to thinking of myself as post-menopausal woman again?

I can tell you this much, if I start feeling queasy and nauseous and it’s not from Taco Bell, I’m going to roll over and whisper a little word of my own in my husband’s ear. “Vasectomy.” We’ll see who freaks out the most.