For some weird reason, I just couldn't sleep at all last night. Dr. Morell says that it might be due to my building up an immunity to the Ambien. I take six of them at bedtime, which he says is normal. I don't really mind being up before the sun, except that there's nothing really good on TV at that time and Bessie doesn't unlock my bedroom door until 6:30 AM. I spent a good half hour flopping around in my restraints like a fresh trout on a hot sidewalk before I flipped on the tube to find nothing but infomercials.
Normally I can't stand those things, but I got hooked on that Cindy Crawford thing where she sells a "facelift in a tube" or something like that. It's supposed to be $200 for the whole kit, on sale for just $39 through a time-limited offer and that included free shipping. I would have called, but the leather straps prevented me from reaching the phone and my wallet disappeared ever since Bessie took that last weekend off.
I guess I was intrigued because if I'm really serious about returning to public life, I'll probably have to do something about my face and neck. Between you and me, diary, everything above my shoulders has gone well beyond the wrinkle stage and is now deep into hanging folds and pleats. A few months ago I tried covering everything with a new hairstyle, but to be honest, unless the bangs were combed down to my waist, it simply didn't solve the problem. So now I'm seriously considering getting a facelift.
Maybe I've watched too many episodes of "Botched," but the big problem I have with going under the knife is coming out of surgery looking fake and phony. I've seen too many celebrities wreck themselves and I sure don't need to be scaring more people than I already have. Andrea Mitchell and Sylvester Stallone are beginning to look like twins and the Washington, D.C. crowd isn't much better. Half of them walk around looking like they have hangers in their mouths and the other half look like they've lost the ability to blink. I want to appear relaxed yet
Bill says he thinks it's a good idea and that "as long as you're in the shop" why not get implants -- and he wasn't talking about my chin or cheeks. That man doesn't show any interest in anything unless there's a "double D" after it. You should have seen him jump right into the conversation. He said he knew an Iranian doctor in Los Angeles who could do it all as a package price right there in his office. I don't know. Persians give me the creeps. His office isn't even in Beverly Hills. It's "Beverly Hills adjacent," which means he's working a few blocks away from paying premium rent on the second floor over a Quizno's.
Frankly, diary, this worries me. I sure wouldn't mind having a rack of melons up front where just a couple of bee stings were before, but at what cost? Am I selling out my convictions by giving into media pressure? Am I just another victim of our youth culture? Will this
Do you think Huma would notice?