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My Profile
Retro-retrospection - 2008-10-06
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11:24 a.m. - 2003-07-19
The bruise on the underside of my chin is much better. The swelling is down, thank goodness. When you already have a double chin the size of a kid's inflatable swim ring the last thing you need is to have that sucker get bigger. The discoloration is mostly gone, and it and the small scab are easily covered with make-up. I've taken so many headers the last couple years that camouflaging the dings on my face is almost second nature. Should I ever get a face lift I'll already be an expert at cover-up make up and could hit the streets looking okay straight off the operating table. Actually, cosmetic surgery is something I consider a lot. Thanks to the Net I’ve been able to do a ton of research and am quite familiar with procedures, risks, costs, and am realistic in my expectations. Plus I have an advantage that some people wanting surgery do not. I know EXACTLY how the end result should look. I’m not wanting a new nose where I can only imagine how I’m going to look. I don’t want cheek bone implants, or even breast implants. (Gah! Could you imagine? If my hooters were any bigger I’d need an engine hoist to carry them around.) Nope. All I want is for things to be put back where they used to be. I’d love it if my eyebrows didn’t sit directly above my eyelashes anymore. I swear to God my forehead is migrating to Miami. I don’t even bother with eye shadow these days, my eyelids have disappeared. I look grouchy and tired all the time. And those sexy green cat’s eyes of mine look like gun slits. So yeah, putting my forehead back where it belongs would be great. A tummy tuck would be a two-fer. One, I’d be rid of that poochy droopy thing left over from the C-section I had with Wolf. And two, they could take all the stretch marks from my pregnancy with Alex while they’re at it. Alex grew so fast in-utero that by 7 months my belly looked like it had been clawed by tigers. Here it is 18 years later and the only change in those suckers is they’ve finally faded from glaring red to a gross shiny silver. They are just as numerous and wide as they ever were. Pregnancy books might have a paragraph or two about stretch marks and the application of cocoa butter, but mostly they act like stretch marks are no biggie. Oh yeah? The puckered fissures I’ve got from navel to pubis are a plenty big deal and have guaranteed that I’ve had to wear one piece bathing suits for the last 2 decades. I love my boys, but the birthing of them has left my body a big ugly mess. While not precisely cosmetic surgery, I want to get my tubes tied. Especially now that my cycle has gone all fluky and one month out of every three I’m sweating it out thinking, “Peri-menopause or pregnant?” To be relieved of this constant fret would do wonders for the frown lines and crow’s feet etching ever deeper into my worried face. I’m 40. The baby factory is off-line...forever. The idea of starting all over again with a new kid makes my stomach clench. No “Oh, wouldn’t another baby be sweet?” thinking on my part. My period is late and I’m offering burnt sacrifices and doing warding off dances like a Lakota praying for buffalo. POOF! Good-bye double chin! I do have some neck that’s still visible, but another 5 years or so for my enemy gravity to work on it and I’ll have to trade my pearl choker in for an opera length strand. The flobby wattle hanging below my face will hit my breast bone. I’ve seen pelicans which have a tauter chin line. I really don’t want to be known as ‘Old Marsupial Head’ because of my swaying jaw pouch, you know? And last, but not least are the boobs. Always large and rather heavy, time and nursing have changed a lovely set of knockers into dugs. The old Ubangi women in “National Geographic” have nothing on me. I swear to God when I set them free from my Iron Maidenform they look like windsocks with a doorknob on the bottom. Mostly emptied Christmas stockings with an orange left in the toe. The withered utters of dairy cows long past their usefulness and about to be sent to the knackery to be made into tallow and shoe leather. And when they ARE bound up and corseted my cleavage is deeper than the Marianas Trench. The lost gold of Cortez could be in there and nobody’d be the wiser. There’s lusciously busty and there’s wearing what looks like a second ass on your chest. I’d like to be the former again. I mean when Pamela Anderson sneers and says your boobs are too big, you know it’s time to do something radical. If I ever hit the Lotto, after I woke up from my faint from shock, the first thing I’d say is, “Get me to the chop shop. There’s work to do!” “Holy Nip and Tuck, Batman!” ~LA
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