You wouldn’t know it looking at me, but I’m not really in my early forties. I know, crazy huh? Now I won’t reveal my true age, but I will tell you that I fall somewhere between 55 and what archeologists refer to as a “fossil.” So how do I maintain this vibrant, youthful appearance? Sipping from fountain of youth you say? No silly. There’s no such thing (unless of course you know otherwise. In which case, please contact me immediately.) The truth is I dabbled in some plastic surgery. Yes, I am being serious. Nothing too drastic of course. The secret to successful cosmetic procedures is not to make it obvious that you’ve gone under the knife. That’s why “subtlety” has been the mantra throughout all 114 procedures that I’ve undergone. After all, you want your peers to believe you bear a natural resemblance to Jessica Alba, and not that your husband is happy to pay for unnecessary medical procedures in the off-chance that complications occur and you die on an operating table with a vacuum hose stuck in your gelatinous ass.
To be honest, over the years there have been some incredibly perceptive folks who’ve called my bluff. No, I’m not joking! There was that time my left boob implant exploded in high altitude during an overseas flight. Nobody said anything of course, but I could tell the family sitting next to me knew something was up when they were suddenly splattered with gooey silicone. One particularly honest fellow even told me that my face looked like “a rotting pumpkin with a condom pulled over it”, while my neck was “more wrinkled than a Shar-Pei’s balls.” He then kindly suggested that if I was willing to spend thousands of dollars on my face, perhaps I should invest $15 on a turtleneck sweater. What a quirky jokester!
My husband says he’s done paying for my “improvements”. He thinks that during these tough economic times there’s no room for excessive spending. That’s why I found a wonderful, affordable surgeon/vet in Queens who performs all kinds of cosmetic procedures—right from the comfort of his suburban garage. He costs a fraction of what my other plastic surgeons charged, and according to the blogs, patients were “speechless” when they awoke from surgery lying on a Futon mattress, beside a cat doing her business inside an old shoebox. One patient even wrote that instead of an IV drip, they were hooked up to an upside-down Mountain Dew bottle with a garden hosed attached to it. In these economic times, that’s thinking smart. Besides, I think the masterpiece I see in the mirror is almost complete. So wish me luck. I’ve got a feeling this will be my last procedure.
