A Copy of I’m Kind of a Big Deal Going to a Loving Home
Posted Jun 14 2011 11:12am
And now, another excerpt. Although this isn’t indicative of the whole book, it does speak to something that a lot of us deal with: getting old as fuck. If you want to win a copy of the book, leave a comment. I will pick a winner from each day and send you an autographed copy of I’m Kind of a Big Deal! Or…you can just buy it here ! It’s only 10 bucks.
This is from the chapter Shooting Up
In 2008, I had three kids, a husband and a lively writing career, which was the culmination of years of stand-up and television writing jobs. But, still after all these years of building myself up on the inside, getting therapy, reading motivational books –okay watching motivational Lifetime movies, I was still not immune to the pressures of living in Los Angeles. I tried to be; I went weeks without getting my brows waxed, I rarely wore make-up cause I figured, why bother? I’m a writer! I have earned the right to stay in my pajamas all day and temper deadline anxiety with Red Vines. If I miss a day or two of moisturizing, who’s counting? I haven’t been to a commercial audition in over ten years, I have no agent fretting over whether or not my J-Lo booty is going out of vogue and maybe I should do Pilates because they heard it can really lengthen your glutes. I’m free of feeling the need to conform to the whims of society’s ever changing standards of beauty. Although, I don’t know if I ever actually figured that in those terms or if I was simply too lazy to do anything about my retro-bush (oh yeah, I rocked the pizza slice for months after I had kids) and mustache. But I did pride myself on my lack of self-consciousness.
But one day I caught sight of myself in a photo snapped at a four-year-old’s birthday party and my smug attitude took a sudden and consciousness altering nosedive. I couldn’t believe what had happened to me. One day I was young and cute and the next it was like the elements had declared jihad against my face. I immediately phoned my best friend Diana. “Fuck. I look forty –and not the good kind of forty –not Selma Hayek forty. I look regular forty. I might need some kind of emergency intervention.”
“Honey, it might be time for us to get Botox,” Diana said gingerly, taking on a big sister tone. A few years prior to this I wouldn’t have even considered putting toxins in my face because a few years ago I was laughing my ass off at how ridiculous Meg Ryan looked with her crazy lips the size of banana slugs and how Nicole Kidman’s face packs more plastic than my wallet. And then I had a kid. And, oh my God in one year I aged ten. And, then I turned forty and got pregnant with twins and suddenly, there I was looking forty-two and feeling fifty.
“Botox. That sounds expensive. And there are needles involved –not a fan. And don’t you have to do it all the time? Isn’t it addictive?”
“Well, sure. If you’re crazy. And rich. And an actress. We are none of those things, therefore I think we can be trusted to Tox responsibly.” She did have a point there. But I was still nervous. “Look, I’m going to see my dermatologist next week for a mole count; why don’t you come with me and we’ll ask questions?” Pathetically that actually sounded fun. But when you have three kids, your fun threshold is significantly lowered.
When she swung by my house to take me with her to her Beverly Hills skin doctor, it occurred to me that this is something only women do together. You’d never hear a guy say, “Dude, I’m going to get my toupee clips rotated, wanna ride along?” But Diana and I had it like that. We did everything else together so why not this? I figured I’d let Diana do her thing and then I’d slip in a few questions for the doctor –as if the questions just occurred to me that instant and not like I was trying to work in a free consultation.
Of course once I was in the vicinity of medical personnel, I was off and running. “Can I ask a question?” I said to the assistant nurse. And then I dove right in. “So, I’m going to the gym, I’m eating healthy –if you consider Healthy Choice ice cream bars to be healthy – which I do – hello! The word “healthy” is right in the name!, I’m getting enough sleep and by enough I mean a few hours bookended by children crying and getting into bed with me every night. But basically I’m doing my part and yet, my age is starting to show. I was thinking about the possibility of a little Botox.”
“You know what would be great for you?” the assistant nurse asked.
“Um, what?” I said, hoping whatever it was, it would be available in a cream.
“We have this new mini face-lift. It’s non-surgical and it only requires a few days of social downtime.” Was she serious? Did I really look like someone who could use a face-lift? This was very disconcerting.
“I’m only forty-two. I think that’s a bit young for any procedure requiring ‘social downtime’” I snapped back.
“I know you’d love the results. My mom did it and she looks ten years younger.” Could she make me feel any worse? “It’s only two thousand dollars. We’re running a special.” Apparently she could. “Of course you could always go with Botox and some filler if you’re trying to save money. But it may not get rid of those furrows completely.” And here she poked the top of my nose with her index finger to illustrate, in case I wasn’t aware that my face was a freak show. Damn. I may not be able to get rid of my furrows completely? This was bad news since I hadn’t even known that what I considered a cute little scrunch my nose made when I smiled –like a little bunny –were furrows. Such a nasty word. Furrows sounded like the tunnels in the ground made by rodents overrunning the backyard. Wait, I might’ve been thinking of burrows, but in any case, whatever they were, they were in my forehead.
“I want to look ten years younger but at this point I’ll settle for a little rested,” I said to Diana on our way home from mole patrol, “because I certainly don’t have two grand lying around for a face-lift.”
“That was pretty ridiculous,” Diana said. “You don’t need a face-lift. Maybe just a little Tox and a laser.”
“A laser? Why do I need that?”
“Those liver spots aren’t going to lighten themselves.” This was worse than I thought.
“I don’t know. Maybe I could just try getting more sleep.”
“Stefanie, let’s be honest, you’re the mother of three little kids; the chances of you having Botox far exceed the chances of you getting a full night’s rest.”