Botox Virgins

I cracked up the other night watching my favorite summer show, So You Think You Can Dance, when one of the judges, Mary Murphy, admitted that she couldn’t make a particular expression because her face was stiff from too much Botox. Ahah! I knew something was off about her, but figured it was just her horse teeth. I spent the next hour fixated on Mary’s face and clearly, she had not only SOME Botox but LOTS of Botox, evidenced by her lack of any wrinkles on her forehead, plus her inability to move her eyebrows.

A few of my friends are already toying with the idea of Botox. Just a little needle above the eyebrow and another minor touch to the lip, they say. Just a small sip of the proverbial fountain of youth. Let’s just TRY it, I hear. But I think that once you try it you can never go back...because using Botox once is like losing your virginity.

I lost my virginity to a boy named Howard. Yes, sadly, he didn’t even have a better nickname, until afterwards when my friends would call him “Howwieee!” I had all the hopes and dreams of a young high school girl-- find true love and have that wonderfully tender moment when we cuddled in each other’s arms and he carefully deflowered me. But by the end of my junior year, I succumbed to hopelessness and hormones and gave it away to the boy who seemed to know what to do and could keep his mouth shut.

It wasn’t tender nor was it wonderful. It hurt like hell and then it was over. All the waiting and romanticizing vanished in under two minutes. And I realized rather quickly that I had just given up my one-and-only chance to ever have a first time again the way I had hoped.

It’s like my favorite saying about having children: Once you have a baby you can’t put it back. Same for popping your cherry and Botox. You only have one time to get it right because believe me, unless you have a bad reaction to sticking live botulism in your face (and that thought alone should disgust and dissuade anyone from doing it) you’re probably going to be hooked and now you’ve got the REST OF YOUR LIFE to continue sticking needles in your face with a nerve toxin produced by a bacteria.

Frankly, for my one friend in particular, I find your interest in Botox quite hypocritical considering what a germ freak you are. You insist on Purelling your hands twenty times a day, gag at a single crumb on the floor and have a medicine cabinet full of cleansing products to keep all those buggies off your counters, skin and children. However, you’re fully willing to inject living bacteria into your face in the name of beauty? Sheesh!

Sorry, I digress. My point is that we’re not old enough to give up our Botox virginities yet. Like my mom would tell me in high school, I have my whole life ahead of me for sex. We have our golden years ahead of us for Botox. Let’s face it: We’re not Hollywood stars (alas, Starr, you’re a star!). A few wrinkles on our faces only indicates a life well-lived. For full disclosure, I’ll admit readily that when my gobbler starts drooping to my boobs, I will be getting a neck lift. But I will stay away from the needles. So please don’t call me a hypocrite.

Cosmetic surgery, vaginas & Charlie the Tuna

It seems like there's been a lot of conversations lately about cosmetic surgery and other enhancements. One girlfriend has been gung-ho about trying Botox and/or Restylane. She often bitches about her lines and creases and has several friends who started down the needle highway already. She’s just too damn scared to turn herself loose on that road; but every time she hears another success story, she inches closer to the entrance ramp. I told her I’d probably consider something cosmetic at some point, but I think that once you jump on that runaway train, it’s hard to get off.

I’ve seen girlfriends get good boob jobs and bad boob jobs. Tummy tucks, lipo on the thighs and buttocks. Nose jobs, tattooed eyebrows, collagen injections, face and eyebrow lifts. Whatever floats your boat is cool with me. It’s your body and if it helps your self-esteem, I support you.

But there is a point of too much. If you don’t believe me, spend a day at the Boca Towne Center. Aside of great shopping, there’s an endless stream of overdone women to giggle at. You can see tons of too-tiny waists on lollypop heads with faces sewn back on on too tightly and lips that look like the Charlie the Tuna guy on a Starkist can.

Today, as I was sitting at my desk working on a mundane spreadsheet, I got a hilarious phone call from a girlfriend. She called to share that she just heard a radio commercial for the crowning glory of all cosmetic procedures. The king of the hill. Top of the heap. Hey, number one…

Vaginal rejuvenation.

Say it with me…vag-in-al re-juv-e-nation. Yes, ladies, for several thousand bucks, you can have the procedure that tightens your vagina and perineum to help increase your pleasure during sex and stay young in every way.

I’m laughing now and not sure how to make more fun of it than that. I’m partly laughing at the term, vaginal rejuvenation. It reminds me of another funny vagina word—vaginal dentata, or women with toothed vaginas. Various cultures have folk tales about women with toothed vaginas, frequently told as cautionary tales warning of the dangers of sex with strange women and to discourage the act of rape.

To further that thought, in the bizarre-but-true category, a real product was invented called Rapex. It looks like a female condom, but with one stunning difference: upon penetration, 25 hook-like barbs attach themselves to the skin of the penis, and the device is then transferred from female to male and can only be removed by a doctor. The idea is that the rapist’s pain would disarm him long enough for the victim to get away, and would require him to turn himself in–evidence unmistakable–in order to avoid permanent damage.

Not sure where I was going here, aside of the laughing I’m doing alone at my desk, but consider this lesson on vaginas over.

The sucky fact of being a woman

I wish just once, a man would have to use a tampon. Not all day, that would just drive him completely over the edge of insanity. Just one tampon, rammed up his butt, just once. Of course, it would have to be one of those half-way dry days when you question whether you should use one at all. Men can’t even begin to imagine how getting your period is truly one thing that sucks about being a woman.

I didn't mind my period until I decided to stop being a reproducing human-being. We should be able to shut off the hose once the pool is filled. Instead, I have to live with my perfectly-tuned every-28-day cycle for another 10-to-15 year prison sentence. I'm tired of the cramps, the tears, the moodiness, the Doritos, the endless trips to the bathroom, and those damned tampons! Plus, as Maverick would agree in no uncertain terms, I become a bitch.

Furthermore, it sucks to be of the womanly-age that requires a mammogram. Talk about the cold chicken cutlet boobs! For those who have never enjoyed the delight of a mammogram, get ready for the panini press! Yes, girls, having your breasts checked for little bumps and lumps that harbour evil little cancer cells can be equated to watching a fat Italian man smashing up your tits on a hot panini press. Un cappuchino to go with that, senora?

Well that’s probably enough for now. I could fill this blog with so many other reasons but I think I’ll save them for a different post. I’m sure I’ve scared you young ‘uns away with that graphic description. You'll awaken with nightmares of the Italian guy chasing you with his George Forman grill. (Sorry girls. It’s the cold, hard facts about mammograms and someone’s gotta be honest.)

In the meanwhile, you tell me what one thing absolutely sucks about being a woman. Go ahead. I really want to know. Share. Let it out. It feels good!

Here's one from me: one good reason why being a woman is not sucky. It's the fact that we women have a wonderful ability to understand our own feelings, rationalize the "why" behind it, and create an action plan to solve it. Then we discuss it with our three closest friends. Modify based on their input. Vent it aloud. Afterwards, we feel better and say, “Yes, that feels good!” I’m glad I got that off my chest.