In 1994, “The Washingtonian” featured some women who have gone under the knife to look younger. They looked awesome. From hag to fab! I promised myself that when I grow up, I will consult the very same plastic surgeons should I decide to do a procedure to make me look better.
My pre-nup did not mention financing a facelift but I stated it very early on that when I reach my late forties, I will want a facelift as a holiday present. Around my 48th birthday, I convinced myself that it was time for a consultation. Lo and behold, the doctor in the partnership has since retired but the other partner was still practicing. I convinced HB to come with me. “If the doctor says I am too young for it, then I will defer to his opinion.” HB knew he might be in a hook so he listed at least 100 questions in his Blackberry to ask the surgeon.
THE VISIT. We arrived in the doctor’s Virginia suburban office one morning. We were greeted with an enlarged photo of the 1994 magazine that I have brought with me as my talisman. They found that impressive; that I kept the magazine all those years. The staff are all very pretty women. I was invited to the office of the consultant where she showed me a computerized version of what I can look like. (I did not look anything like that, post surgery.). A few minutes later, we met face-to-face with Dr. W. He was very nice and easily admitted that he himself had a facelift, which endeared him to me.
He had his assistant give me a mirror and asked, “Now Mrs. G, what don’t you like about your look?” I replied, “I look like a woman who writes bad checks and I do not write bad checks.” He laughed, “I have not met a patient who said she looks like she writes bad checks!” “You know, looking angry and upset with her life. I am a happy person, doctor.” I have seen mug shots of women on grocery stores’ bulletin boards. They pass bad checks. I do not like to look like that. They look angry. He turned my face this way and that way. These doctors are very smart. They know which buttons to push. “I do not really think you need a procedure because you are beautiful as it is. You are a beautiful woman. However, we can rejuvenate your look.” Bingo! “I do not transform women into having a windblown look. But yes, we can make you look younger and rested,” as he points this way and that, already mapping the incision and the stitches. “Yes, you will love your result.” Jackpot!
Then it was our turn to ask questions. “Do you have any questions?” HB said, “As far as my wife goes, I think her question is ‘how soon can we do it?’” Then he proceeded to ask the doctor questions like, how long has he done this, what are his credentials, his hospital affiliations, how many of this procedure has he done, how long is the recovery, what are the chances of failure, how much will it cost, how exactly and where will the incisions be on my face? Et cetera, et cetera. Then HB said, “She and I will have to discuss this and we will get back with you.” That was just fine. They appreciate that we were not making a decision like pulling a tooth. This was after all a “major major” decision that may end up with my face looking like the Joker.
Once we got in our car, I was anxious. I was not sure if HB bought the pitch. Then he said, “Okay, so, I know you feel very strongly about this. However, this is a very expensive procedure. You also want a Smart car. So which one do you like first?” “I want them both. I will be very sad if you make me choose one over the other.” “What I am saying is that you cannot have both this year. Choose which one you want to do first.” “I want to have my surgery first.” “Okay, then you fill out your leave forms in the office and call the doctor’s office to coordinate with them.” Easy as that. My HB agreed. I told him that if I would work through my fifties, I would want to at least look like I am not old enough to retire. Wish granted.
After all the paperwork was filed, my employer decided that this was a major surgery and it qualifies for disability leave. I was very grateful that I would not be forced to come back to work with stitches on my hairline. My best friend at work had a brilliant suggestion. She said, “Buy a DD cup bra and wear it on the first day you return. People will pay attention to your chest and think that that was what you did. They will ignore your face.” I did buy a pair! But not DD, it was like a full C but the cups were stuffed like a Butterball turkey breast for Thanksgiving.
THE CUTTING and SEWING DAY. It was one chilly morning when HB drove me to the plastic surgery clinic for my rejuvenation procedure. Yes, that is what they call it. Photos were taken of me for the “before” look. Anyone who has woken up at 4am, and asked not to put make-up on will appreciate any “after” look with make-up. I looked terrible, and I was very aware of that. I looked like I just got out of jail. Writing bad checks. Then they led me to the operating room.
It was a huge high-tech room. The nurses greeted me and told me that I would be made comfortable, how was I that morning, was I ready to get rejuvenated? I was shaking. I was cold and yes, scared. But I was ready and I needed to be brave. My faith was in the hands of my prestigious surgeon, touted as the best that money can buy in the DC Metro area. I was then asked to lie down on the operating table and I saw my doctor come in. He greeted me with a smile, then the nurse gave me an IV shot of Malbec, or Sauvignon Blanc, or Vouvray, my favorite, and I was off to a dreamless sleep.
When I came to, I felt top heavy. My head felt like a huge cotton ball. I was gauzed up and groggy. I felt like I had a turban on my head. The nurse who was pushing my wheelchair was very kind. “Sweetie, how ya feelin?” “I feel good,” came my groggy response. “Sweetie, there is a black limo outside, is that yours?” I said something to which she said, “Oh no, he is not cheap. He just paid thousands for you!” I apparently said, “No limo for me. You see a Mercedez, that's me, my husband is cheap…” Another patient had her own private plane at Dulles waiting for her, I was told by HB later. It must be nice but I could not imagine being airsick after being cut left and right on my face and not being able to properly puke. Anyway....
My HB took me home and made his turbaned wife comfortable. Then he called my best friend. She told me later that what he said was, “Oh my God, your best friend looks like she was run over by a train. Do you think she will ever look normal again?” My best friend assured him that I will look normal again.
THE VISIT. We arrived in the doctor’s Virginia suburban office one morning. We were greeted with an enlarged photo of the 1994 magazine that I have brought with me as my talisman. They found that impressive; that I kept the magazine all those years. The staff are all very pretty women. I was invited to the office of the consultant where she showed me a computerized version of what I can look like. (I did not look anything like that, post surgery.). A few minutes later, we met face-to-face with Dr. W. He was very nice and easily admitted that he himself had a facelift, which endeared him to me.
He had his assistant give me a mirror and asked, “Now Mrs. G, what don’t you like about your look?” I replied, “I look like a woman who writes bad checks and I do not write bad checks.” He laughed, “I have not met a patient who said she looks like she writes bad checks!” “You know, looking angry and upset with her life. I am a happy person, doctor.” I have seen mug shots of women on grocery stores’ bulletin boards. They pass bad checks. I do not like to look like that. They look angry. He turned my face this way and that way. These doctors are very smart. They know which buttons to push. “I do not really think you need a procedure because you are beautiful as it is. You are a beautiful woman. However, we can rejuvenate your look.” Bingo! “I do not transform women into having a windblown look. But yes, we can make you look younger and rested,” as he points this way and that, already mapping the incision and the stitches. “Yes, you will love your result.” Jackpot!
Then it was our turn to ask questions. “Do you have any questions?” HB said, “As far as my wife goes, I think her question is ‘how soon can we do it?’” Then he proceeded to ask the doctor questions like, how long has he done this, what are his credentials, his hospital affiliations, how many of this procedure has he done, how long is the recovery, what are the chances of failure, how much will it cost, how exactly and where will the incisions be on my face? Et cetera, et cetera. Then HB said, “She and I will have to discuss this and we will get back with you.” That was just fine. They appreciate that we were not making a decision like pulling a tooth. This was after all a “major major” decision that may end up with my face looking like the Joker.
Once we got in our car, I was anxious. I was not sure if HB bought the pitch. Then he said, “Okay, so, I know you feel very strongly about this. However, this is a very expensive procedure. You also want a Smart car. So which one do you like first?” “I want them both. I will be very sad if you make me choose one over the other.” “What I am saying is that you cannot have both this year. Choose which one you want to do first.” “I want to have my surgery first.” “Okay, then you fill out your leave forms in the office and call the doctor’s office to coordinate with them.” Easy as that. My HB agreed. I told him that if I would work through my fifties, I would want to at least look like I am not old enough to retire. Wish granted.
After all the paperwork was filed, my employer decided that this was a major surgery and it qualifies for disability leave. I was very grateful that I would not be forced to come back to work with stitches on my hairline. My best friend at work had a brilliant suggestion. She said, “Buy a DD cup bra and wear it on the first day you return. People will pay attention to your chest and think that that was what you did. They will ignore your face.” I did buy a pair! But not DD, it was like a full C but the cups were stuffed like a Butterball turkey breast for Thanksgiving.
THE CUTTING and SEWING DAY. It was one chilly morning when HB drove me to the plastic surgery clinic for my rejuvenation procedure. Yes, that is what they call it. Photos were taken of me for the “before” look. Anyone who has woken up at 4am, and asked not to put make-up on will appreciate any “after” look with make-up. I looked terrible, and I was very aware of that. I looked like I just got out of jail. Writing bad checks. Then they led me to the operating room.
It was a huge high-tech room. The nurses greeted me and told me that I would be made comfortable, how was I that morning, was I ready to get rejuvenated? I was shaking. I was cold and yes, scared. But I was ready and I needed to be brave. My faith was in the hands of my prestigious surgeon, touted as the best that money can buy in the DC Metro area. I was then asked to lie down on the operating table and I saw my doctor come in. He greeted me with a smile, then the nurse gave me an IV shot of Malbec, or Sauvignon Blanc, or Vouvray, my favorite, and I was off to a dreamless sleep.
When I came to, I felt top heavy. My head felt like a huge cotton ball. I was gauzed up and groggy. I felt like I had a turban on my head. The nurse who was pushing my wheelchair was very kind. “Sweetie, how ya feelin?” “I feel good,” came my groggy response. “Sweetie, there is a black limo outside, is that yours?” I said something to which she said, “Oh no, he is not cheap. He just paid thousands for you!” I apparently said, “No limo for me. You see a Mercedez, that's me, my husband is cheap…” Another patient had her own private plane at Dulles waiting for her, I was told by HB later. It must be nice but I could not imagine being airsick after being cut left and right on my face and not being able to properly puke. Anyway....
My HB took me home and made his turbaned wife comfortable. Then he called my best friend. She told me later that what he said was, “Oh my God, your best friend looks like she was run over by a train. Do you think she will ever look normal again?” My best friend assured him that I will look normal again.
I had staples on my hairline above my temples, my hair was matted with blood, I have bruises, I was swollen. The only thing visible was my mouth and my beady eyes. The next day or so, I returned to the clinic and they removed the gauze. I waited to get home to check it out. Was my face transformed into a thing of beauty that would last forever?
I screamed when I saw my face in the mirror for the first time. I looked like a huge smashed pumpkin with eyes smaller than Connie Chung’s. In other words, I was a mess. I was ugly. My son would not go near me. “Mommy I love you very much but you look gross!” Well, one has to look worse before she looks better. But my spirits were high. I was very eager to see my “after” look.
Around Thanksgiving day, I was starting to have cabin fever so I asked HB if I could go with him to the grocery store. He refused. I asked him why. He said, “I am 6 feet tall, you are 5’4”, Asian. They might think I have been abusing my mail order bride with all your bruises around the eyes.” I said, “I will camouflage myself, please take me.” “You will need to walk a few feet behind me so people do not think you are with me.” So at around 6:30 on a dark autumn evening, I put on my sunglasses, a strip of band-aid below each eye and my felt hat. I walked about 3 yards behind the mail order groom.
The one thing I love about living in the U.S. is that people do not care about anyone but themselves.:) No one cared if I looked like someone has bashed my face. Absolutely, they saw me as a normal human being that might have just been wearing a Halloween Costume 24 days later after trick or treating. Asian and weird, of course she does not know Halloween had been weeks before. Did you see those staples on her hairline, what was she supposed to be anyway?
I screamed when I saw my face in the mirror for the first time. I looked like a huge smashed pumpkin with eyes smaller than Connie Chung’s. In other words, I was a mess. I was ugly. My son would not go near me. “Mommy I love you very much but you look gross!” Well, one has to look worse before she looks better. But my spirits were high. I was very eager to see my “after” look.
Around Thanksgiving day, I was starting to have cabin fever so I asked HB if I could go with him to the grocery store. He refused. I asked him why. He said, “I am 6 feet tall, you are 5’4”, Asian. They might think I have been abusing my mail order bride with all your bruises around the eyes.” I said, “I will camouflage myself, please take me.” “You will need to walk a few feet behind me so people do not think you are with me.” So at around 6:30 on a dark autumn evening, I put on my sunglasses, a strip of band-aid below each eye and my felt hat. I walked about 3 yards behind the mail order groom.
The one thing I love about living in the U.S. is that people do not care about anyone but themselves.:) No one cared if I looked like someone has bashed my face. Absolutely, they saw me as a normal human being that might have just been wearing a Halloween Costume 24 days later after trick or treating. Asian and weird, of course she does not know Halloween had been weeks before. Did you see those staples on her hairline, what was she supposed to be anyway?
I still had those darn staples on my hairline to hold my new look during Turkey Day. The staples unnerved me. However, a few days later, I was relieved when they finally pulled those things out and off my face. I had yellow bruises, a very good sign that I was healing well. HB took me with him to California, where I hid myself in a Ritz Carlton by the ocean. I felt wonderful. I felt young again, well not that young, but I looked a tad different. Those naso-labial folds were not as pronounced. Yay, I can work for ten or more years!
While in California, I was convinced (not proven) that people looked at me and wonder about my still swollen face. I began to think that I looked like Imelda Marcos. I did not think looking like Imelda was a compliment. I went from Connie Chung to Imelda Marcos, what's next? Then I began to see the difference in my face. My HB began to see it as well. I looked like I was taken to the cleaners to get pressed, without starch, please.
While in California, I was convinced (not proven) that people looked at me and wonder about my still swollen face. I began to think that I looked like Imelda Marcos. I did not think looking like Imelda was a compliment. I went from Connie Chung to Imelda Marcos, what's next? Then I began to see the difference in my face. My HB began to see it as well. I looked like I was taken to the cleaners to get pressed, without starch, please.
I still looked the same, I just look much rested. My surgeon assured me that this procedure does not give one a dramatic change compared to say a nose job or a breast implant. No, this procedure should and shall be subtle. I am for the subtlety. After all, I am happy with my nose!
We returned to Washington and I got to stay home until a few weeks before Christmas. This procedure was the best Christmas present I would get that year and onward.
REALITY CHECK I returned to the office, aware that people were wondering where I have been or what has happened to me. I watch them look at me, wearing my stuffed chest with pride. After a week, I went back to my old chest and embraced my new face.
We had a male receptionist who took me aside and said, “Hey people are asking me what is going with ‘my full name’?” So I said, “Tell them, I had the time and the money so I had a mini facelift. I can give them the name of my surgeon.”
It has been a couple of years since then. Truly, the surgery has helped me deal with changes reflected on my face from the seasons of my life. I have always believed in reinventing myself to be better, to be at par in this competitive world. I have gone back to school to learn a new profession, helped my HB raise a teen-ager, be an engaged partner in a successful marriage, open my mind to things that were previously outside my comfort zone. My face matches my energy, my spirit, my inner joy. As a result, I like myself even more as I got older.
My HB teases me and says I am “high maintenance,” but I tease him back that I am the showcase of his wealth. I told him, “I would be in my box and the mourners would exclaim, “what do you mean she’s 80, she looks so young, such a waste!” And I would be laughing all the way to the heavens.
I hope the wings I will get are also rejuvenated so I can fly like an eagle. I hope that Saint Peter will greet me with such confusion “Did you say you are 89 or 80?” I will be honest this time, “Sir Saint Peter, I have always lied about my age. I am really 89.” He would say, “Are you kidding me? Why, your wings look like they are 65 years old, too young! Dude, enjoy your Social Security checks!” “Sir Saint Peter, I am not bullshitting you, Sir. I am 89 years old and I need to stay. Please do not send me back. My surgeons are all here with you.” Saint Peter will then say, “Okay, you can stay but please remain on the prude side, will you? ” “Oh….Kay…”
Vanity. It is not a bad word. It forces one to maintain his/her looks. It is nice to reinforce the “Hey, I am not just a pretty face; I got brains to match it too.” We arrange and re-arrange our homes and spaces to find harmony, balance, and beauty. Why can’t it be applied to our looks as well? It is like the old BMW ad, “as long as there are people who want perfection, BMW will continue to pursue it.” And yet, even these highly engineered cars need maintenance every now and then. We all need it. Some of us are shy to admit it; some of us want to share the positive results of it. I am shy. But only when I am asleep.
Here is the deal: I will never in a million years be perfect, but I feel perfectly happy in my skin, in my rejuvenated skin, that is.
We returned to Washington and I got to stay home until a few weeks before Christmas. This procedure was the best Christmas present I would get that year and onward.
REALITY CHECK I returned to the office, aware that people were wondering where I have been or what has happened to me. I watch them look at me, wearing my stuffed chest with pride. After a week, I went back to my old chest and embraced my new face.
We had a male receptionist who took me aside and said, “Hey people are asking me what is going with ‘my full name’?” So I said, “Tell them, I had the time and the money so I had a mini facelift. I can give them the name of my surgeon.”
It has been a couple of years since then. Truly, the surgery has helped me deal with changes reflected on my face from the seasons of my life. I have always believed in reinventing myself to be better, to be at par in this competitive world. I have gone back to school to learn a new profession, helped my HB raise a teen-ager, be an engaged partner in a successful marriage, open my mind to things that were previously outside my comfort zone. My face matches my energy, my spirit, my inner joy. As a result, I like myself even more as I got older.
My HB teases me and says I am “high maintenance,” but I tease him back that I am the showcase of his wealth. I told him, “I would be in my box and the mourners would exclaim, “what do you mean she’s 80, she looks so young, such a waste!” And I would be laughing all the way to the heavens.
I hope the wings I will get are also rejuvenated so I can fly like an eagle. I hope that Saint Peter will greet me with such confusion “Did you say you are 89 or 80?” I will be honest this time, “Sir Saint Peter, I have always lied about my age. I am really 89.” He would say, “Are you kidding me? Why, your wings look like they are 65 years old, too young! Dude, enjoy your Social Security checks!” “Sir Saint Peter, I am not bullshitting you, Sir. I am 89 years old and I need to stay. Please do not send me back. My surgeons are all here with you.” Saint Peter will then say, “Okay, you can stay but please remain on the prude side, will you? ” “Oh….Kay…”
Vanity. It is not a bad word. It forces one to maintain his/her looks. It is nice to reinforce the “Hey, I am not just a pretty face; I got brains to match it too.” We arrange and re-arrange our homes and spaces to find harmony, balance, and beauty. Why can’t it be applied to our looks as well? It is like the old BMW ad, “as long as there are people who want perfection, BMW will continue to pursue it.” And yet, even these highly engineered cars need maintenance every now and then. We all need it. Some of us are shy to admit it; some of us want to share the positive results of it. I am shy. But only when I am asleep.
Here is the deal: I will never in a million years be perfect, but I feel perfectly happy in my skin, in my rejuvenated skin, that is.
I am now ready to age gracefully…
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