The Botox Diaries, page 26
“You don’t, either. You’re just unhappy with everything right now.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m not unhappy about my boobs, too. Who isn’t? You spend your whole preadolescence waiting for them, and then they’re never right. Too big, too small, too round, too flat. You hate it if men look at them, and you hate it even more if they don’t.”
“I know. We all knock our knockers. Look at this,” I say, putting my hands under my own slightly heftier breasts and hoisting them up a few inches. “This was me in 1989. And this,” I say, pulling my hands away and letting my breasts fall back into the underwire of my Maidenform, “is me today.”
“Oh, Jess, you look fine,” Lucy says.
“That’s only because of my new 18-hour bra. Figure I’ve got six more hours left on this baby. Don’t ask me what I do after that.”
“At least you’re not worried about springing a leak,” Lucy says, playing with the padding on her own bra. “This water-filled stuff is supposed to look more natural than foam. But it makes me nervous.”
“If you’re smaller, you never sag,” I parry, jiggling from side to side, now thoroughly mesmerized by watching my own breasts in the mirror.
“It’s amazing we ever became friends at all,” says Lucy. “You’re the kind of girl I hated in high school. Great tits, and always pretending they were such a burden.”
“Let’s call it a draw,” I say, refusing to explain how embarrassing it was all those years ago being the first one in my class to sprout. All my friends were still in training bras. Although I could never figure out what they were training—or training for. I spent the whole year slouch-shouldered so boys wouldn’t stare at my chest. Something else not likely to arouse Lucy’s sympathy. But I’m still not sure why she’s making such a big deal about this.
“Lucy, you’re gorgeous. You’re perfectly proportioned. What’s wrong with a 34-B anyway?”
“In Hollywood, everything,” says Lucy. “I must be the only woman in town who has her original set. California’s the land of plenty. People talk about grapefruit and cantaloupe and they don’t mean fruit. And Hunter’s a watermelon guy. I catch him ogling big-chested women all the time.”
“So this is about Hunter?” I ask, fairly incredulous that she’s made a decision about the man in her future. And that it requires surgical enhancement. Not his. Apparently she’s over the small birthday present. Not to mention the small penis.
“Not really,” Lucy says. “I’m not doing this for Hunter.”
“For Dan?”
“He likes my breasts.”
“Then who?”
“Jess, I’d never do this for a man. What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“The kind we all are. Insecure. Tell me the truth. Do you think Jacques’ new girlfriend has better breasts than me? Is that why he picked her?”
“Who knows why any of us are doing anything lately,” Lucy says with a sigh.
I sit back. “I’m not going to let you do anything stupid,” I say.
“Right,” Lucy says, as a nurse finally ushers us into the doctor’s office. “Ask all the questions I forget to.”
Lucy gives the nurse all her vital stats, including health history and insurance policy. Implants aren’t covered on her plan, but a case could be made, I suppose, for including them under her mental health rider. Then a procession of stunning assistants bustle in and out of the consultation room. Either God or Dr. Roget is responsible for their firm breasts, and since none of the young ladies seems older than twenty-five, I’m betting on God. But Lucy would call me naïve.
Finally, the good doctor herself comes in. She’s tall and sinuous with pixie-short blond hair and—I’m not being naïve about this one—collagen-plumped lips. The diploma on the wall says Harvard Medical School, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see “Playboy Pin-up” also listed on her résumé.
Dr. Roget seems ready to give a peppy presentation, but first she needs to know which speech to give. She stares at Lucy’s chest, then searches through the notes the nurse has handed her.
“So, your breasts,” she says finally. “Are you here to make them larger or smaller?”
If the contractor has to ask whether to paint the inside or the outside of the house, I figure you don’t need any work done at all. But Lucy’s taking no such cues.
“Larger,” Lucy says.
“Good choice,” counters Dr. Roget.
And with that, New York’s premier boob specialist launches into her lecture, covering all the bases—size and shape, silicone versus saline, nerve damage and nipple numbness. I’m sure this particular form of torture is illegal under the Geneva Convention, but Lucy doesn’t blanch. It’s all in the name of beauty. No Pain, No Gain. Might as well tattoo that on Lucy’s butt. Which is what I’m afraid we’ll be correcting next.
“So,” says Dr. Roget, encouraged by Lucy’s continuous nods of agreement, “one important question. What level of pertness are you going for?”
“How many levels of pertness are there?” asks Lucy, scribbling down notes and hanging on the doctor’s every word.
“Many,” says the doctor, leading us over to her computer screen and hitting a few keys. A 3-D image of Lucy’s torso, scanned in from a photo one of the nurses took earlier, pops up. With a few keystrokes, the doctor enlarges Lucy’s breasts, changing her from pretty producer to bodacious babe. Two strokes later, and Lucy looks like Betty Boop. Much more of this and those torpedoes are going to explode.
“Isn’t this equipment incredible?” asks the doctor proudly. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the computer or Lucy’s potential bazooms. “Anyway, your choice on size. What will it be?” Dr. Roget’s so casual, she could be asking Lucy to pick out a new mascara.
Lucy takes a moment. “Second one,” she says conservatively. The first middle-of-the-road choice I’ve ever seen her make.
“Done,” says Dr. Roget, pulling a photo album off the shelf. “Now take a look at some of our before-and-after shots. I think you’ll be amazed at the changes. We get some impressive results.”
Lucy and I flip through the pages, oohing and aahing as if it were J. Lo’s wedding album. Whichever one. Frankly, none of the women in the pictures look that transformed—except in the “before” photos, the lighting is less flattering. And in the post-surgery shots, the underwear is a lot nicer. But Lucy sees magic, not good lighting.
“It is amazing,” Lucy says, transfixed. “Exactly what I imagined.”
She’s ready to sign on the dotted line, and Dr. Roget, ready to close the deal, flicks to the calendar on her Microsoft Outlook.
“You’re in luck. Somebody just canceled her surgery,” says Dr. Roget, clicking through her schedule. “How’s nine a.m. four months from yesterday work out for you?”
“Lucy’s busy,” I jump in. “Not a good day for her. She already has a hair appointment. And an eyebrow shaping.”
Lucy glares at me. But I take my responsibilities seriously. Time for me to speak up. In quick succession, I rat-a-tat my questions. Postoperative pain? Can be lots of it. Scarring? Might happen. Asymmetry? Ditto. Or not ditto. Your breasts may not end up the same size. Dr. Roget seems to be getting annoyed with being treated like a hostile witness on Law & Order, but I don’t mind because when I glance over at Lucy, she seems to be coming slightly to her senses.
“And what about hardness?” I ask Dr. Roget. “I’ve heard implants can make your breasts feel unnatural.”
“Not really a worry. Happens sometimes. But don’t even think about it,” she says, lightly tossing off my concern.
“I don’t know how you could do something like this to your body without knowing what it will feel like,” I say, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even buy a peach without squeezing it first.”
“Well then come on. Squeeze them,” Dr. Roget challenges, pulling down her stretchy V-neck shirt and lacy La Perla bra in one swift motion. Her breasts pop forward. Wow. Walking advertisement for her own work. But wait a minute here. Can’t be her own work. If Lucy were smart, she’d ask for the name of Dr. Roget’s plastic surgeon.
But okay, if she wants me to squeeze, I’m there. I’m not shy. And this is all in the name of medical research. I reach across the desk and grab a handful of breast. First lightly and then not so lightly.
“Lucy, come try it!” I say.
But Lucy, now pale, is glued to her chair.
“Because the point I’d like to make,” I say, turning into the senior physician at attending rounds, “is that even breasts that look this good can have some subcutaneous scarring.” I’m good. Very good. All those nights scrolling through WebMD.com have paid off. “At first squeeze, the breast may feel normal. But even a baby would know the difference. Especially a baby.”
“I’m not having any more babies,” Lucy says, finally able to speak.
“A devoted husband—one who’s loved you for twenty years, for example—would be able to tell. And wouldn’t like it. And even a self-absorbed lover would notice and object.”
“Unless his big thrill came from showing you off in a low-cut Versace at Spago in Beverly Hills,” Lucy says. I’m not sure if that’s a pro or con.
“I don’t know what you’re possibly feeling,” says Dr. Roget, now squeezing her own breasts vigorously, as if she’s searching for a misplaced earring in there. “They feel fabulous to me. I don’t know what all the commotion’s about.”
“That’s because you’ve been doing this so long you don’t even know what natural feels like anymore. Here, feel mine.”
“No thank you. I only touch people who’ve made an appointment,” says Dr. Roget, snapping her shirt back up. “If you have any more questions,” she says to Lucy as she stamps out of the room, “feel free to come back. Without your friend.”
Chapter SIXTEEN
“I’M HAVING a mother-in-law problem,” Lucy complains, as we sit down at a cracked red plastic booth at Dell’s dingy diner. My feet stick to the gummy green-and-black linoleum floor and I flip the selection chart on the tableside jukebox, last updated with Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.” Which still passes as popular music in Pine Hills.
I stare into my watery cup of coffee and dump in two packs of Equal, thinking it might mask the bitter taste. Before I get to Lucy’s mother-in-law, there’s a more pressing issue.
“Why are we at Dell’s again?” I ask.
“Because I was hungry,” says Lucy. Who, best I can tell, does nothing but eat these days.
She calls the waitress over and orders blueberry pie à la mode. “Don’t give me one of those skimpy pieces,” she says, getting up to point out the slice she wants under the plastic-domed pie plate on the counter. “And I need a few packages of Splenda, too.” She walks back to the booth and slides in.
“I don’t get it,” I say, sipping carefully at my coffee. Didn’t need to bother. Dell’s always serves it lukewarm. “Why do you need Splenda when the blueberry pie is already five thousand calories?”
“Why make it worse?” asks Lucy blithely. She contemplates the piece of pie that the waitress has now plunked down in front of her. Dell’s pastries are made strictly from canned fruit and cornstarch, which doesn’t make them land lightly on the table—or the stomach.
Lucy digs in with gusto and swallows hard. Not easy to get Dell’s pie down. The place has been here since 1952 and I’d guess the pie has, too. “By the way, you should stop using that Equal,” she rebukes me between bites. “Splenda is all natural. Pure sucralose.”
I have to remember to ask her where those all-natural sucralose fields are. Kennebunkport?
“What happened to your perennial diet?” I ask. “And don’t tell me Atkins has stretched the blueberries into blueberry pie. You’ve been eating everything in sight and you’re still as skinny as the Pine Hills Yellow Pages.”
“The Aggravation Diet,” Lucy says. “Eat anything you want. The pounds melt off.”
“Only you, Lucy,” I say, putting down my coffee. “Even when you’re miserable, you’re golden. Most people eat when they’re stressed and next thing they know, they end up at Lane Bryant. You get depressed and you’re still buying size fours at the Armani sample sale.”
“Size two. But the truth is, I don’t care anymore. I’ve given up. On everything.” Lucy sighs theatrically and puts down her fork. “At least that’s how I’m feeling today. I seem to bounce back and forth. One minute I’m all excited about what surprises lie ahead in a Life Without Dan. The next, I can hardly get my head off the pillow, wondering how I’ve blown everything that’s ever meant anything to me.”
“You haven’t blown it yet,” I tell her. “Messed it up a little, I’ll admit.”
“No, blown it,” says Lucy. “I told you. My mother-in-law.”
That’s right. Lucy’s mother-in-law. Not only is Lucy blessed with the Aggravation Weight-Loss gene—which is what the scientists at NIH should really be working on cloning—but she has the only mother-in-law this side of Mars who actually thinks her precious baby boy married somebody worthy of him. She and Lucy genuinely like each other. Zelda, who’s short and round and wears her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a scrunchie, started one of the first women’s consciousness-raising groups in the ’60s. Now she’s raising politically astute undergrads as a tenured professor at Smith. Her book—Women in Basket-Carrying Cultures, 1952–1974—is a standard text in the field. She and Lucy go on twice-yearly outings to the Metropolitan Museum of Art—to see the paintings, not the gift shop. She’s proud of Lucy’s job and actually applauds her daughter-in-law’s ordering Christmas dinner from Dean & DeLuca. Not exactly my experience. The one time Jacques’ mother caught me using frozen peas instead of shelling fresh ones myself, she acted as if I were Lucrezia Borgia, poisoning the family.
“Lucy, what problem could you possibly be having with Zelda?” I ask. “She’s practically perfect.”
“I know, I adore her,” says Lucy, suddenly near tears. She pours a Splenda into her glass of ice water, stirs it with her finger and then gulps it down. I watch, mesmerized. Maybe that’s what keeps her so thin. What the heck, I’ll try it, too. I suddenly feel like a little girl at a Barbie tea party, drinking sugar water. Not even sugar water. Sugar-substitute water. This is pathetic.
I push aside the glass. “Is Zelda taking Dan’s side in this?” I ask sympathetically. “Not so surprising. She loves you, but she is his mother.”
“No, she’s amazing. She’s trying to be neutral. She told me that she understands what I’ve been going through. Not what I did, but what I’ve been going through. She was even the one who suggested I buy a Porsche for my midlife crisis. Or take up basket-weaving. She offered to teach me. Chapter Seven in her book.”
“Try it,” I shrug. “You’ve tried everything else. At least basket-weaving’s constructive.”
“Too late,” Lucy says, sounding anguished. “Zelda’s having a sixty-fifth birthday party this weekend. Dan’s going with the kids. He asked me not to come.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Sounds like Zelda would still be happy to have you.”
“She would. That’s what really hurts. Dan told me he doesn’t want me there. He said it’s a family party.”
“But you’re …” I stop, suddenly understanding what Dan meant.
“I’m not part of the family anymore,” Lucy says bluntly, tears starting to stream down her face. “How could I not be part of the family? It’s my family.”
I dig through my bag for a Kleenex to give her, but Lucy’s already dabbing her eyes with a neatly pressed handkerchief. Monogrammed with an “HG.” Unless that hankie came as a bonus with a magazine subscription to House & Garden, I’m losing patience. Lucy’s crying about her family and wiping away her tears with her lover’s handkerchief. Ironic. Metaphoric. Anthropomorphic. No, that’s something else. But so is Lucy’s behavior.
“Lucy, if you want Dan back, you’ve got to stop crying on Hunter’s shoulder,” I say.
“I’m not,” she protests.
“You’re crying into his hankie, anyway,” I say, reaching over and fingering the corner of the sodden white square. “Why would you even carry that around?”
Lucy shoves the offending handkerchief back into her pocket. “Didn’t even know I had it,” she moans.
“You need to make a choice. That’s what it means to grow up.”
“Grow up? If I have to get much older than this I’ll kill myself.”
“Nothing quite that drastic required. But tell me the truth. Is Hunter still in the picture, or just his hankie?”
“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly.
“Don’t you think Dan deserves to know that he’s your one and only? Don’t you owe him that?” I ask.
“Hunter’s never been a keeper,” Lucy says. “He was just a toy, just for fun. But what if I give him up and Dan doesn’t come back?”
“Won’t happen,” I say, though I’m not sure I completely believe it. Who knows what men will do. Even Dan.
Lucy pauses and looks seriously at me. “Dan’s going off this weekend without me. Maybe he’ll decide he likes his life better that way. Why does he need me around? I’ve been acting kind of bitchy the last few months.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say.
“Don’t be nasty,” Lucy says, starting to cry again. “Not now when I’m so scared about everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, stroking her hand and trying to be comforting. “What are you scared about?”
Lucy sniffles. “Used to be I could look down the road and predict that every day would be just like the next. I thought I hated that. Now I’m terrified that I can’t see down the road at all. I don’t even know what’ll happen tomorrow.”
“What would you like to have happen?”
“I want to be happy,” Lucy says, patting away a stray tear with the back of her hand. “I want to feel like I did when I was twenty and anything seemed possible. The whole world was in front of me. One wrong decision didn’t matter because I’d get to make a million more. Every door was open. Now the only sound I hear is doors slamming shut.”
