I Get Botox

It’s one of the first delightfully cool days of October and I’ve just parked on a side street in the old, colonial town where I grew up.  I’m about 15 minutes early for the next rendezvous of my day, so I put the car in park and sit back to take a few minutes to just be. Gazing through the windshield my mind reminisces on walking down this street as a middle schooler with my friend Jessica. I can see us en route to her house, only a couple blocks away, minutes from raiding her parents’ pantry for afternoon snacks.  

A ding from a notification on my phone interrupts my retrospection and like one of Pavlov's dogs, I immediately reach into the cup holder and bring the phone close enough for the words to come into focus. 

“Hi, sorry, but I’m running 10 minutes behind schedule. Is that OK?”  

It is OK and I tell Dr. Sam so.  The now 25 minutes I have before my Botox appointment gives me plenty of time to walk down the brick sidewalks, pushed uneven by roots of trees generations older than me, and get a cup of coffee.

On my way I breathe in the smell of fall. I relish the familiarity of it all and the satisfaction of knowing the deep 11s between my eyebrows will soon be no more. Well, for 3-5 months, until I have to get shot up again. 

Funny enough, my 11’s began their journey in this very town, at the local middle and high schools, carving their way into my forehead when I was a cliche miserable teenager. I disapprovingly scowled at… well, everything in a valiant attempt to seem above all the things in which I wasn’t included. Of course, as all of us who have been teenagers know,  I desperately wanted to be a part of all the things. 

As I got older the tectonic plates of my glabella ( go ahead, giggle at the ridiculousness of that word; I sure did) had set in motion the formation of dueling grand canyons between my eyes, whose sole purpose seemed to be to make sure no matter my mood I would project an underlying opprobrium to every situation encountered. 

Even sitting on the counter of my bathroom, applying mascara with my mouth open (why do we do that, ladies?) my reflection projected back a feeling of “Ga fuck yaself”. 

A four inch discrepancy in the sidewalk pavers make me come back to the present moment to concentrate on not falling in public. I take what was mostly too large a step over (you can never be too careful) then go back to ponder writing this very blog.  It came to mind that you, dear reader, may have very reasonable questions about my willingness to inject myself with Botulism. 

Am I really that vain? 

Yes, Incredibly so. 

Am I jealous of my boyfriend’s immaculate, olive, Italian skin? 

With the burning rage of a thousand suns. 

Does this actually affect me on a day to day basis?

Unfortunately, I allow it to. 

The amount of time I have spent pouring over photos friends have posted of me is far more than my ego would like to admit. Images display a group of delighted faces, happy to be amongst those whom they love.  Then there’s me with what seems to be a smile haphazardly pasted on my vexed massive noggin.  

But I AM happy, God Damn It! There’s just simply no way anyone could ever know it by, ya know, looking at me. 

After discussing this very issue and my upcoming appointment one evening with my sister, she let out a huff. One of slight frustration with me, I know because I’m pretty familiar with it. “Sare, the whole point of getting Botox is to Not Tell People You Get Botox” 

Which is sound logic. 

So why am I choosing to tell you this? 

I spent a lot of my adult life holding every, single, little thing in. It made me ashamed, unapproachable, and angry all the time. Prone to outbursts and isolating myself for months on end. Even those who are closest to me know to stay away when I’m in these states, because quite frankly, I’m vicious. 

When I’m there I don’t release anything. Not the furrow between my brows, not a muscle in my body, flexing to keep in even the smallestl vulnerability for fear of judgment and ridicule.  

Like that I shave my toes. 

Those three black hairs appear on my big toes regularly as if from nowhere. They are so long and lustrous it begs to be asked; Why, WHY there? What purpose in the evolution of mankind could they possibly serve?! 

Whatever God’s reasoning may be, I think women have collectively rebelled, deemed them gross, and formed an unspoken law in which they will be removed for the duration of sandal season. 

Or maybe it’s just me. Somehow, I doubt it is. 

Now, I know the discussion of toe hairs and Botox is not earth shattering, and pretty much is first world, vanity bullshit. However, I’m choosing to open these little windows so I can let people see in. 

I love looking into open windows. Maybe it’s because I’m nosey, but I find almost nothing more satisfying on an evening drive home than passing a house whose owners forgot to close their blinds. 

I have a voyeur’s delight in seeing anonymous people amongst their well chosen chachkies and pictures hung on the wall, strolling to their beige, post modern couches, a bowl full of an evening snack in hand, popping a couple mouthfuls before they sit down. They look so cozy, adorned in a well worn heather grey sweatshirt, which I can instantly feel on my skin because there’s a similar one in my closet I’ve had since I was 20… it’s so... familiar. And in that moment, so is that stranger. 

The thing is, that familiarity happens in a flash, without a word, a connection created with that person by seeing a little bit of him or her, in just the time it takes to drive past a house. 

Like it or not, we’re all empaths, affected by the energy surrounding us, even the energy we create around ourselves. Windows, whether we forgot to close them or flung them open by our own hand, let people in. Fears about physical looks or relating to delightful evenings with couch snuggles and The Office (or insert your Netflix show of choice here) … we’re all the same in some way. Recognizing that commonality opens us to conversations, connections, a willingness to listen and the courage to reach out.  

If you're wondering if I’ve overcome the need to close off and isolate, No, I haven't. It comes and goes in waves. Large amounts of time between writing or making art is a good indicator for me that I’m allowing myself to slip into a bad place. So when the idea for this blog popped into my head, I gave myself the same frustrated sigh my sister does. Why this? It took but a beat to flip, welp, alright. If talking about botulism & toes hairs is going to help me keep the windows open a bit longer, and keep connections going, (maybe you looked down and saw those little black hairs flowin’ in the wind again like a goddamn Pantene commercial, WHY?!) then hell, why not give it a whirl? 

This is my emotional practice, opening up windows along my path, so when it comes time, I’ll have the fortitude to open up doors.