Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause

It's Not How You Age, It's Where

I'm convinced that I have picked one of the best places in the U.S. to be an aging woman. My selection system may differ slightly from the ones used by people whose job it is to decide where it's best to be single, raise a family, retire, or just annoy your neighbors. I didn't factor in the number of hospitals nearby (2), continuing education opportunities (lots), or weather (mildew with a 40% chance of moss outbreak). But I did take into consideration the important stuff.

1.  Comfortable shoes. There are places in the U.S. where women over 50 still feel compelled to wear heels on occasion. What are they, on drugs? They must be, given the amount of pain I experience every time I attempt to shove my foot into any shoe narrower than my foot (whose idea was that anyway?), especially when that shoe tries to make me walk on my tiptoes. I don't want to tiptoe. I want to walk, dammit. And as much as I love Oprah, I don't need stilettos to look sexy sitting down in.  What I need are shoes I can jog down the street in if a sudden shower erupts or there's a stray dog who needs saving. In Eugene, OR, it is not at all unusual to see women of all ages decked out for the opera or ballet in a nice cocktail dress and Birkenstocks. Or, my favorites, Dansko. Believe me, we can get where we're going without complaining about our aching feet.

2. Weird hairstyles. You can dye it or you can pluck out the strays (until the strays are all you have left, then you should stop), but chances are your hair is grayer and kinkier than it used to be. In places like Los Angeles and New York, trendy hair is important. In my little neck of the woods, dreadlocks are still considered a valid hair choice. It's almost impossible to find the wiry sprouts when you look like your hair's been mixed in a blender full of honey and mud. And if dreads are too kinky for you, you can wear a funny hat and call yourself a goddess. Believe me, no one in this town will notice.

3. Tattoos. Sure they're trendy for all age groups, but what more convenient way to remember your ATM password than having it tatooed on your upper thigh?

4. Tie dye. If you don't already know, Eugene is where tie dye went to die, but it got stoned and forgot. Tie dye is the ultimate anti-aging pattern. It draws people into to its vortex of turquoise and blue and yellow, thus effectively distracting them from your crows' feet and double chins. "I'm sorry officer, I couldn't really focus on her face. She could have been 20, but she could have been 70. She could have been a he. There may have been a mustache. Although that doesn't mean it wasn't a woman." Tie dye also hides a multitude of sins -- muffin top, beer belly, mid-menopausal pregnancy because you accidentally took two gingko pills and no birth control...

5. Aging hippies. I was not one of the original hippie chicks, so my boobs were harnessed by a bra throughout the 70s (they arrived fashionably late), 80s, 90s, oh-ohs, etc. Thus, I haven't experienced the continental drift many of the free-spirited and free-boobied women living here have. There are a lot of breasts gone south and by comparison, mine look young and perky. Especially in tie dye.

I knew I was gonna love this town when I moved here sixteen years ago. I just didn't know why until now.

A Hair-Raising Experience

I got my hair cut last week. It used to be so easy  to do -- I'd pick out a hairstyle from a magazine, rip out the page, and take it with me to the hairdresser. Then we'd both laugh and laugh at the idea that my hair might actually do something "stylish." On occasion, I showed up with pages from DogFancy magazine, but that was mostly during my poodle cut years.

When you're a woman of a certain age (I refer to it as "mumbledy-something"), getting your hair cut requires deep introspection and a review of societal expectations. If I keep my hair longish, for example, does that make me look younger or does it just make me look like I'm trying desperately to hold onto my youth? One thing longer hair does for certain is fool men walking behind you into thinking you're a babe with whom they would like to hook up. Then when you turn around, they discover you're a cougar with whom they might like to hook up if a babe isn't available. It's a fun game and one of the reasons I've kept my hair long for the past five years.

On the other hand, if I cut my hair short, am I jumping on the midlife hairstyle bandwagon? And if so, what types of drinks do they serve there? Is a "to-the-chin" hairstyle part of the middle-aged woman's uniform, along with black slacks, a well-positioned scarf, and a mood-swing ring? Or does it say to the world, "I am not my hair!" Because that message is definitely preferable to "I am not my bladder." 

I had very short hair for much of my life. I also had a lot more estrogen back then and didn't have to worry that I might be mistaken for a guy. My Lauren Hutton-like voice these days doesn't do much to convince people otherwise.

I did all the soul-searching I could bear. Afterward, I did some key-searching and headed off to the salon, where I closed my eyes and said to the stylist, "Do whatever you want as long as it's not a mullet." After all, there are some styles even a dog-groomer shouldn't revisit.

My hair is now shortish, but it still moves when I shake my head a dog with ear mites. And if this cut says I'm a midlife woman who's done trying to convince people I'm anything but, good! Now, where'd I put those black pants and that scarf?

Get Some Sleep, Will You?

Last week, I read a magazine article on how to stay young-looking, and among the expected advice -- eat well, exercise, don't squint while reading articles on how to stay young-looking -- was this tip, which has has caused me to lose sleep four days in a row : Don't sleep on your side. You'll add fine lines (or in my case, fault lines) and wrinkles to that one side. Not only will you look older than if you sleep on your back, you'll look lopsided.

Yikes! So now I'm not only supposed to worry how I dress, what hairstyle I choose, how often I floss and have my peach-fuzz of a mustache attended to, I also have to concern myself over what goes on while I'm sleeping? As a "curled on my side in the fetal position" type of sleeper, this advice brings up a whole new set of questions about aging I've never had to think about before. For example:

o    If I can't sleep on my back (never have been able to), would my next best option be propping myself up in a doorway? Or would I just end up wrinkle-free, but with bags under the eyes that would cost extra to check in at the airport? Or should I try strapping myself by the ankles and hanging from the closet rod?

o    What if I start off on my back, but out of habit roll towards my side during my sleep? Is there some kind of device to gently nudge me back into the preferred snoozing position? A mini-electrical shock, say, or one of those extreme tire damage-type of devices?

o    If I lie on my back, but a 23-lb. dachshund decides to splay his sleeping form over my eyebrows, will this add to my wrinkles or will it be like a mini-facelift all night long? And what if the other dachshund who will undoubtedly use my exposed stomach as a mini-trampoline to get to the other side of the bed twenty or thirty times during the night? Will the additional abdominal toning make up for the lack of shut-eye?

o    If I smooth enough anti-aging night cream on my face (and neck and chest and shoulders and arms and duodenum...) before retiring to bed, won't that keep my face from sticking to my pillow and creating extra lines? Or do I need a Teflon pillow?

Personally, I think that losing sleep over worrying about what may or may not make you look your age will make you grumpy and friendless. I'm going to stick with my laugh lines and crows feet and sleep in the position that is most comfortable and protects me from leaping wiener dogs. I recommend you do the same.

Dating in the Dark? No Thanks

Dating in the Dark is a new reality TV show (if by "reality TV" you mean "show that attempts to discover how shallow people are willing to act in front of millions of viewers who have nothing better to do with their time.) I haven't seen the show, but I have seen the commercials. Which is why I haven't seen the show. Well, that and the fact that occasionally I DO have a life.

From what I can glean from 30-second ads, the show features three men and three women who meet as a group in total darkness, then they arrange for individual dates also in the dark. Some of them apparently just chat the entire time while others take the opportunity to make out with a complete stranger who may or may not be Carrot Top (that would be my biggest nightmare).

Then they expose the contestants to each other under the harsh reality of fluorescent light and each must decide whether they want to see the other again now that they've seen their bad hair, hippie shoes, or birthmark shaped like the state of Texas. These decisions are made on the show, with a guy or a girl waiting on the patio to see whether or not he or she will be dumped. Because it's important that we all share in the humiliation and ego-deflation. Apparently these shows are produced by middle-schoolers. I'm suprised the dumpees aren't also given wedgies as the final credits roll.

It appears that the mean age of the contestants on this show is mid-twenties, which makes sense. Because if they were, say, in their 40s, the producers would have a hard time getting an hour-long show out of it. A typical "date" might go like this:

Midlife Woman: Wow, it really is dark in here.

Midlife Man: I like it. I have more hair in the dark.

MLW: And I DO NOT have a muffin top.

MLM: Wanna make out?

MLW: Sure, but don't tell my grandkids.

MLM: You have grandkids? Uh, cut!

Or, perhaps, this is equally likely:

MLW: So, what made you decide to come on this show? Did your wife dump you  for cheating on her and then you decided you should go ahead and play the field as long as you had some Viagra left, but the cute blonde receptionist at your periodontist's office laughed at you and called you a "Mougar"?

MLM: Yeah, but it was the dental hygenist...

MLW: I'm outta here.

It's not that midlife daters are picky, it's just that with age is supposed to come wisdom and surely part of that wisdom is knowing that someone you meet on a reality TV show filmed without lights will probably not live up to a very strict set of criteria. And once you've been married to or dated a sex addict, a meth dealer with a gambling problem, and Carrot Top, well, you tend to want to make sure that at least those items are checked off the list. I know I am.

If I were dating, I'd definitely demand the lights stay on -- despite the fact that I look younger in semi-darkness. Call me pick or call me wise. It's your choice.

Learning to Walk

Of all the injuries you can sustain in life, pulling a muscle in your butt from sitting at your desk too long has to rank up there with the most humiliating. Especially when you have to explain it to a physical therapist who obviously lifts hybrid cars on her lunch break to keep in shape.

It's nice to have a medical diagnosis for my pain in the butt (a pulled ischial tuberosity), but I could have done without our conversation. It went something like this:

PT:    Why don't you have a seat on the table?

I sit down. At least that's what I think I'm doing.

PT:    Oh no. That's all wrong.

Me:     Yeah, I know, I slouch a little when I sit. I've been working on it (mostly by visualizing myself sitting taller, not by actually doing anything about it).

PT:    Yeah, the sitting sucks. But you don't sit down properly. That's part of your problem right there. Stand up.

I do, with some trepidation.

PT:    Wow. You don't stand up right either. No wonder your butt hurts. I'm surprised you can walk at all.

She then proceeded to show me how when sitting, one should bend at the hip joint first as if a large guy with a black belt has just karate chopped you at the pelvis, and then lower your butt down. The same action is supposed to happen when standing up, only in reverse. We practiced this for 10 minutes. (Her bill was $300 for an hour, so I spent $50 learning how to sit down and stand up).

You'd think that at the ripe age of mumbledy-something, I'd have figured out the basics in life such as sitting, standing, walking, and not paying $300 an hour to have a physical therapist make me feel bad about myself. But nooo... Apparently I have a really long learning curve.

After ten minutes, she was happy with my progress, so I got to demonstrate standing in place for her. Again, I didn't have that down either.

PT:    Your right hip is way in front of your left hip.

This explains why I always tend to veer to the left, I guess. I though she was going to tell me I should step twice with my right leg for each step on the left just to even up the difference, but instead she dug her thumb into my hip joint so deeply I believe police could identify her from the print she left on my femur.

I still have a pain in my butt and now my right hip hurts too. And I'm afraid to either sit or stand, for fear someone will judge me. I wonder if there's anything wrong with my squat?

Hold the Colonoscopy

We'd better find a solution to the health care mess soon because I'm two and a half years behind on my colonoscopy. (For those of you who have now figured out my age and are in a state disbelief, I share your shock).

Having gotten my masters degree in public health, I tend to have medical tests when the medicals recommend having them. This despite the fact that my baseline mammogram caught on fire. If you haven't read about that, you can go here:

www.accidentalcomic.com/columns/firstmammo.pdf

When you turn fifty, many exciting things happen. First, the AARP tracks you down and starts filling your mailbox with reminders that no matter how many others you may fool into believing you are still in your late-forties, they know your real age. They can find anyone. Personally, I don't know why someone hasn't sent the AARP after Osama bin Laden -- he is in their target demographic.

Next, your doctor tells you that your colon has gotten saggy and will soon fall out. Okay, maybe that's your uterus, but he does insist that you need to have a camera stuck up your bum. I don't think I'm that photogenic from the outside, but I once had photos taken of my ovaries that weren't half bad, so perhaps if I gussied my colon up, I wouldn't have to hide the pictures under the sofa cushions.

That, of course, assumes I'll ever have those photos taken. You see, I have one of those health insurance plans that has a $5000 deductible and I never come close to meeting it thanks to healthy living and a strong dose of denial. The colonoscopy people (I envision them in white lab coats with powerful LED lights strapped to their heads at all times, including during dinner with the family)... the colonoscopy people say that the procedure costs about $1200, but if they find anything -- a polyp, a paper clip, your self esteem -- the price just goes up until they're satisfied that your colon is clean enough to eat off of. You may be healthy at that point, but you also may be so poor that you end up stealing tongue depressors and backless paper gowns in order to fashion a tent by the river that you will live out the rest of your days in.

I'm not much of a gambler and the few times I have taken a chance it hasn't paid off. I once got a skin rash from the stuff you scrape off Lotto scratch-its (perhaps that's why they're called scratch-its?) I don't bungee jump, sky dive, or eat sushi. So I'm not going to double down a the colonoscopy table until it's fully covered by my insurance. If Uncle Sam wants photos of my intestines, he's going to have to pay for them.

It's My Birthday, Where's My Pony?

I've decided to celebrate my birthday dyslexically this year, so I'll be 25. Yeah, that's about right. Although most days I feel 7. I don't wanna clean up my room and you can't make me!

Don't you think it's a darn shame there are so many people who stop celebrating their birthdays after a certain age (officially "mumbledy-something"). Or worse yet, they hide under their beds curled in the fetal position and cringe if anyone reminds them they're now officially one year older. Posh! (No, I'm not referring to the Spice Girl.) If you're afraid of a date on the calendar, I can't imagine what kinds of drugs you're having to take to deal with really scary things like the economic meltdown or the fact that Karl Rove has a lot of free time on his hands these days.

Buck up and act your shoe size for a change. Put your hair in pigtails (even if you only have two strands of it left. And they're on your chin). Get your face painted, it'll hide the crows' feet. Run naked on the beach, relying on your hot flashes to keep you warm and keep onlookers at bay. Insist on a pony ride. Stick your fingers in the frosting of your cake. Hold up your age on your fingers (it's a good anti-carpal tunnel syndrome exercise after age forty). Get a pinata filled with vitamins and supplements.

Just make sure you do something fun. After all, you're only going to be this young once. At least until the next time around!

If you know a mumbledy-something woman with a birthday coming up, check out Leigh Anne's new book, Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause at Amazon.com. There's no better gift than laughter. Even if the recipient does pee a little.

An Eye-Opening Study

There are a lot of things that separate women from men, but none are more significant than the fact that we women, especially those of use over twenty-nine, are willing to put ourselves through a lot of pain in the name of beauty. Men usually are not. When was the last time, for example, you heard a guy say, “I think this

Bermuda

short and football jersey ensemble  would look much better with a pair of 4-inch platform wedges?”  When it comes to eyebrows, a guy would rather let his grow so bushy and thick that he has to part them to be able to see to drive rather than experience the agony of plucking and waxing. Just look at the anchors on the nightly news and you’ll see what I mean.

I actually did some research on the subject recently. I decided I’d look younger by having my brows “reshaped,” which by the way is from the Latin “to rip out by the root often removing internal organs at the same time.” Even if it didn’t make me look younger, I figured the constant look of surprise would confuse people long enough so I could make a quick getaway before they focused on my face.

Not willing to inflict this kind of torture on myself or let my husband do it (despite his begging, pleading, and promising me more jewelry and/or chocolate), I went to my local beauty shop. I love that phrase, beauty shop. As if you can purchase beauty. “I’ll take two pounds of beauty today, and oh, go ahead, give me half a pound of perfection while you’re at it.”

Anyway, I settled into the chair, trying to act nonchalant and cool, like I used to do when I was a kid and had to get a shot. Only with brow waxing, you don’t get a sucker afterward no matter how well-behaved you are. Believe me. I asked.

As the technician prepared my brows – which did not, unfortunately, include swabbing them with Novocain to make them numb – I asked her whether she had many male customers. She laughed. Then she yanked a waxy strip from one brow. “Men can’t take this kind of pain,” she said. At least that’s what I think she said. There was a loud ringing in my ears and I had double vision for a minute, so I couldn’t read her lips.

Then she yanked off the second strip. The room started to spin and I saw Elvis.

She asked if I wanted her to do my upper lip as well. Actually she said, “What about the moustache?” but my internal translator was in high gear. I figured at this point, I couldn’t feel pain any more, so what the hell? I was wrong.

Finally, when I was able to breathe normally again, I walked to the front desk to pay for my “treatment.” That’s when I noticed a guy getting his hair cut and decided to conduct a research project right there and then. “Excuse me, sir. I’m doing a survey. Have you ever had your eyebrows waxed?”

He looked at me quizzically. I could tell it was a quizzical look because his big hairy brows kind of formed a question mark. “No, but once when I was in college, a friend dared me to shave them off with an electric razor. And I did.”

I pressed on, testing the beautician’s theory that men can’t tolerate pain the way women can. “If I dared you, would you have them waxed right now?”

 “How much is the dare?”

“Uh, five bucks. Plus I’ll pay for the procedure.” That’s me, the big spender.

“Hmm,” he thought about it for a second. “Does it hurt?”

The beautician and I exchanged looks. Well, I think I exchanged a look. My forehead was numb, so it was hard to tell.

“Yes. A lot.”

The guy shook his head.

“I’ll pass then. I’d have to be really drunk to do something that stupid.”

 I started to thank him for his participation in my study, but decided to ask one more question. “How about your ‘bikini line?’ Would you ever have that waxed?”

“Lady, there’s not enough beer in the world.”

There you have it, my scientific study of men, beauty, and pain. My conclusion? Men are certainly able to tolerate pain, but when it comes to choosing to put themselves through it for the sake of looking good, there’s not enough beer in the world.

In Praise of Granny Panties

            I took a friend lingerie shopping recently. She’s been married for two years now and it’s time for her to switch to comfortable undies. Let’s be truthful here – if you’re still wearing thong panties, you’re probably still dating. I have six pairs of thongs. I use them to stake up my tomatoes in summer. In the winter, I make little hammocks for my hamsters.

Eventually there comes a time in every relationship when the words “Granny Panties” no longer strike fear in a woman’s heart. This is at the point when she starts calculating just how much of her time she spends digging her sexy underwear out from places it doesn’t belong. And wonders how many times she’s been caught doing just that on camera and then had to spend all night checking YouTube to be sure.

What has always struck me as odd is that men have no hesitation referring to any type of underwear that covers a woman’s backside as “Granny Panties,” but they can pull their tidy whities up to their nipples and parade around the house thinking they look like George Clooney. That testosterone is one powerful drug.

     I took my friend to Victoria’s Secret because she figured she could get something cute and comfy there. Ha! Personally, I think Victoria should have kept her secret to herself and we’d all be a lot better off. It’s her fault men think that all women should dress like supermodels, who often parade around in their matching bra and panties at the beach with a come-hither look on their face. I’m mumbledy-something years old and have never felt the urge to wade into the surf in nothing but my skivvies. My bra and panties almost never match either. Hell, my boobs don’t even match – I have a B cup and a C cup. The left one’s an overachiever. And I must admit my “come hither” look is really more of a “she needs her meds adjusted” look.

There are many things you can buy to wear underneath it all that you really shouldn’t. For example, anything with pearls where the backside should be. Now don’t get me wrong – I’m originally from the south and I enjoy a good string of pearls. Grace Kelly wore pearls, for gosh sakes.. Just not where the sun don’t shine.

You just know the idea of a pearl thong had to come from the testosterone-laden brain of a guy during halftime. No woman would willingly create an idea so heinous. Because while a pearl thong might look good on a supermodel with no cellulite and legs that actually do go all the way to there, the rest of us are screwed. Real women have real needs. Like sitting down. That’s not going to happen in one of those. Nor is walking. You’d take a few steps, that sucker would ride up and you’d have to shake your leg like an epileptic horse to adjust yourself.

Why can’t we women just be happy with underwear that fits well, doesn’t bunch up, and costs lest than a tank of gas? 99% of the time our undies are hidden under our clothes, and the other 1%, well, he’s over there in the same pair of briefs he’s been wearing since high school thinking he’s all that. I think our best bet is to save the $135 a pair of pearl thong panties would set you back and spend it on a tube of testosterone instead. I feel better about myself already.

 

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.