When her eyes started acting their age,
actress and writer Ali Wentworth headed for the operating room – and actually
told people about it! Little did she know, other women in her life had been
nipping and tucking for years
I am not a vain person. In fact, I should
care more. I don’t work out. I bite my nails till they bleed and wait until my
dark roots are so grown out that I look like one of those women who hold their
Big Gulp in their cleavage and mail their panties to convicts. I’m in awe of my
girlfriends who have resplendent bodies perfectly toned from Plates, skin that
has been thermo- or phyto- or something-dermed, and hair made silky with exotic
oils drawn from rate coconut husks. If I shower, shave my pits, and moisturize,
I consider it a full day of pampering.
Eyes
Wide Open
So the idea of plastic surgery seemed inane
and way too time-consuming. Who would elect to have someone cut his or her
face? What women could suffer through a face-lift? Steep her stitched and tattered
flesh in a bucket of ice for weeks in a dark, undisclosed hotel room? Surely, I
thought in my ignorance, only Joan Rivers and a handful of the women who elbow
me out of the way at the Bergdorf’s sale had “work” done. Little did I know, a
significant portion of my friends were nipping and tucking and slicing and
dicing on a regular basis.
My friend Beezie is ravishing. Her eyes are
perfectly symmetric, her skin creamy and seemingly untouched by the sun
(although I once saw a freckle on her ear), her legs toned from years tennis.
Even as a middle-aged mother of four, she can still wear tiny jean shorts and
look like Cheryl Ladd circa 1976. Beezie is a professional photographer, and
when she’s deciding how to “fix me in post”.
Who
would elect to have someone cut his or her face? What women could suffer
through a face-lift? Steep her stitched and tattered flesh in a bucket of ice
for weeks in a dark, undisclosed hotel room?
Recently, Beezie was in New York City for a
few days. We met at the downtown eatery Lucky Strike for French fries and the
hope of recapturing our youth. My costume for this performance included skinny
jeans and high-top sneakers, not that I was fooling anyone. I could have been
our waiter’s great-grandmother. I remember once being at a bar in Beverly Hills
and seeing a gaggle of girls in microskirts and stilettoed, bejeweled cowboy
boots sipping pomegranate martinis, laughing and barking like baby seals while
whipping their bleached hair from side to side. When they finally got up to leave
and turned around, to my horror I saw that none of them was a day younger than
67. Since then I’ve been pushing myself to dress age appropriately. And I don’t
judge a woman’s age by her behind, even if she’s in diapers.
Beezie looked especially becoming this
spring day. Like she had just emerged from six months in a hyperbaric chamber.
“I got my eyes done!” she declared, batting
her lids.
“I don’t know what that means”, I replied,
shoving a bunch of ketchup-drenched fries down my gullet.
“I got all that hanging skin on y upper
lids cut off”, she said. Instantly I was aware of the fact that the skin under
my eyes was starting to resemble a curled-up duvet that would soon unfold and
cover my lower face.
I
wanted Beezie’s bright and awake eyes. I wanted her body, too, but…baby steps.
One would involve being drugged into a twilight state; the other, thousands of
SoulCycle spin classes
It’s important to note at this point (as I
have been frequently reminded by haters on the comment sections of the Internet)
that I had quite large bags under my eyes. And it’s not because I was up all
night doing speedballs or studying for the bar exam. It’s a hereditary
condition passed down from generation to generation, like chipped china or a
propensity to drink. Since me early twenties, my baggy eyes had been a source
of utter frustration not only for me, but also for makeup artists (who
whispered sotto voce about them on set) and cinematographers (who spent hours
desperately trying to relight my face). If I had too much salt or soy sauce? I
awoke the next morning as Mickey Rourke. I tried concealer, Preparation H, even
Scotch tape, but there my baggage hung, under my translucent skin, like pizza
dough thrown against the wall.
I wanted Beezie’s bright and awake eyes. I
wanted her body, too, but…baby steps. One would involve being drugged into a
twilight state; the other, thousands of SoulCycle spin classes.
I consulted every professional ravisher I
knew, including four beauty editors and a bevy of gay men. I was referred to
three doctors. I chose a female plastic surgeon based solely in the assumption
that she’d be nicer when I yanked off my shower cap and went screaming into
plate glass en route to the operating room. (Even since I saw the film Coma,
I’ve had tremendous fear of anesthesia). And I hoped she’d throw in a free Pap
smear.
