Plastic surgery is becoming so pervasive lately, it’s kind of making me sick. God, some of these 40-50-something ladies with the waxy-looking faces and perma-surprised eyebrows really believe that they’re attractive too! It’s so creepy.
Age with grace, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been steadily getting grays in my hair since I was 30, and I’m okay with that. I’m crashing towards middle-age and I’m comfortable enough with my life and my marriage to not feel it necessary to turn myself into something I’m not anymore… Young or perky. Surgically forced young and perky looks surgically forced… it looks fake and creepy, sad and tragically desperate ~ it screams “I’m clutching onto my dwindling youth with a death grip and my looks are the most important thing in my life!”
There’s nothing more pathetic than a woman who is trying to dress like her daughter. I see them all the time at the store; hip-huggers, tight tee or cleavage-revealing blouse, trendy do, makeup slathered on, fake lashes, bad blonde streaks, fake boobs, pumpkin-face tan, puffy lips, solar tips… O M G. Their daughters are usually teens or tweens, equally skanked out with glittery eye shadow in mid-afternoon and lip-gloss. The motherly looks are replaced by one of longing and envy and resentment. Deep down she knows her kid is going to look better than her no matter what she does, but she can’t help competing.
No matter how much saline they pump into your boobs, or how thin they stretch your sagging jowls, if your husband is shallow enough to make his love contingent on your youthful looks, the arrival of that 20-something, perky butted replacement is just a matter of time. Face it. Surgery isn’t going to stop the inevitable.
Have some freakin’ dignity. Where’s your pride? Sacrified for the sake of what? Fleeting moments of attention?
After long, it won’t amount to anything at all, except a paralyzed face that can’t even express your personal misery.