Entry #65

Entry #65

Monday, May 7

1:15 p.m. Ever do something completely for the sake of vanity, only to feel incredibly foolish about wandering down that path in the first place? I just spent my entire morning driving 45 minutes each way for a dermatology appointment that was little more than a confirmation that yes, I do have incredibly concave semi-circles beneath my eyes.

I arrived early to my appointment and waited in a room filled with seniors, some of whom were in wheelchairs. This seemed odd for a dermatologist, I thought. I soon learned, however, that most of the people there were visiting internists. The dermatologist’s primary office is in River Oaks, a posh section of Houston, where clients can afford to spend thousands to make them look, in the words of Nora Ephron, “a month younger.”

Upon entering the office, one woman took multiple photos of me from every angle, obviously the "before" photos (before what, however, I was not exactly sure). Then I was taken to a room where I was handed a “before and after” book. The doctor’s assistant had the smooth, somewhat puffy forehead of someone who has had Botox injections, though the skin beneath her eyes was wrinkled—an odd juxtaposition. She enthusiastically told me that she has had Botox, injectables, etc., and is very pleased with the results.

The doctor, whom I soon learned is primarily a plastic surgeon, addressed my “dark circle” issue and proceeded to make me stare at myself in a mirror—could it get more uncomfortable? He pointed out the difference in shadows between looking at myself straight-on, versus looking up and said that the talk-show host Kelly Ripa also has genetic circles, so much so, that no one recognizes her without make-up. I actually think she looks pretty darn good.

The doctor told me that in order to look relaxed and rejuvenated (as opposed to exhausted and lethargic), I would need not just one or even two, but nearly three vials of some kind of “naturally occuring sugars” (i.e., hyaluronic acid) to achieve the desired look. He left so his assistant could tell me how much this would cost. Smart man.

The assistant first showed me some leaflets containing $50 off coupons, and then told me that three cc’s would cost $1600 and last 18 months. I thought about Meryl Streep’s character in It’s Complicated where she goes to a plastic surgeon about her droopy eyelid and, upon hearing what it would entail, does a bee-line out of there. That’s basically what I did upon hearing the outlandish fee that would only lead to an outpouring of many thousands more if I ever wanted to continue looking “relaxed” well into my 50s.

En route home, I passed a variety of churches with billboards that seemed too bizarre to be real. The first one read, “We’re on the road to holiness—motorcycles welcome!,” and “If you are arrested for being Christian, would you have enough evidence in your defense?” Another one had the word “devil” in it, but I drove by it too quickly to catch the entire gist. Still, any church sign with the word "devil" on it gives me the willies.

Across the street was a rifle range demarcated by two giant hands holding large black guns. Church on one side; guns on the other.

I stopped in a gas station mart to get some water and saw that were large sacks of corn for sale by the entry. The cover was printed with an elk head, so I guess it was deer feed. That’s the first time I’ve seen this offering at a mini-mart. “Just goin’ to the corner store for a quick bag of feed. Be right back...”

Down the road was a “deer processing” facility, followed by an elementary school and a dance studio offering “hip hop, cheer, and break-dancing.” An adjacent donut shop advertised an assortment of “donuts, danishes, kolaches and croissants.” Something for everyone (unless, of course, you have a hankering for a bagel).

I had to stop at the kids’ school because Noah once again forgot his lunch. Since Izzie had been in the car for awhile and loves visiting the little kids, I brought her in with me. I went into the pre-school area so the kids could pet Izzie. Within seconds, nearly a dozen kids were surrounding her, petting her from head to tail and chanting, “Izzie! Izzie! Izzie!” 

She lay on her side for a short while, then stood up and tried to make a dash for the exit. She let the kids encircle her one more time before leaving, but clearly was relieved to get away from her pint-size fan club. 

Several kids who were initially scared of Izzie are now completely at ease with her—they ask me daily if she can "come inside and play." If they see me without Izzie they ask me why she's not there. According to these kids, I'm Izzie's mom. The fact that I'm there to pick up Noah and Aidan is inconsequential.