Botox anyone?

I kind of assumed I’d age gracefully. I imagined myself accepting each iteration of changes in my body and mind as simply the next phase.

We’ll call that an…overly optimistic perspective.

It started with pulling out gray hairs in my twenties—a practice I stopped just before my 31st birthday when I wrote a slightly cringey, self-congratulatory essay entitled, “Celebrating my sparkle." 

Of course, it didn’t stop there.

Earlier this year, I saw a new dermatologist. We chatted about normal skin stuff, and then I mentioned the lines I was noticing between my brows.

Without hesitation, she told me I needed Botox. 

Had she suggested creams or serums I wouldn’t have hesitated, but needles were over some arbitrary line of pride or indulgence that made me question my sense of self.

When I remarked that it seemed like a rather intense intervention, my dermatologist assured me, “You just won’t be able to make the mad face anymore,” she said as she squinted her eyes and gestured angrily at her forehead. 

She explained, “Every woman who works here gets Botox there,” as though this supposed normal order of things would offer comfort.

Suddenly, I found the gaggle of very blonde white women with unfurrowed brows alarming. 

Yikes! Is that what I want? 

Wait, isn’t that what I want?

I polled friends, curious about their perspectives. 

As I texted, I couldn’t decide if I felt ridiculous for even asking. Was this really a decision to be made by committee?

I wondered whether it was anti-feminist to buy into the beauty industrial complex that traffics in insecurity and temporary paralysis.

Or was it actually more radical to tune into exactly what I wanted and get the damn Botox if that’s what my heart desired?

At times like these, I have to remind myself that I’m not pursuing the award for Most Feminist Decision-Making. I’m merely deciding what’s right for me in this moment.

Prior to this trip to the dermatologist, I’d presumed vanity was the only reason I’d consider Botox. It's certainly some of that, but

I realize now it’s also about normalcy and comfort.

I’ve spent the better part of two decades with a face that’s largely been a constant in my life. Suddenly it’s doing different stuff.  

Sure, I can tell I look younger in pictures from college, but there’s no specific difference I can point to and say, “That, that’s what’s changed.”

And now the wrinkles begin. I recognize the tension between my desire to embrace the aging process and the normalcy and comfort of my face as it’s looked for my entire adult life. 

My beloved 83-year-old grandmother remains vibrant, funny, and smart. Lately, she’s started to forget things.

Still, even as she struggles with the impact of memory loss, she’s usually charming and salty as hell, meeting the moment with characteristic acceptance and humor.

I realize now that’s what I aspire to. 

Yesterday, I went with her to visit prospective assisted living facilities. After, one of my friends texted that she hoped we found the right place for Granny. With absolute clarity, I replied: 

It’s her path to choose.

A former Catholic nun, Granny left the convent because she was tired of being poor, obedient, and chaste. Decades later, she married my grandfather and was none of those things. 

Just as she chose her journey into and out of the convent, she gets to decide what’s next in this phase of her life. This time, it’s with her family at her side.

It’s still TBD what I’ll decide about the Botox, but it’s my path to choose.

Where do y’all land on Botox? I’d love to hear from you in the comments below.

Sending slightly wrinkled, sparkly hugs,
Lelia