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"  &amp;quot;She looks cold.&amp;quot; Three small words. So small each is a single syllable. But they haunt me. It was an early Sunday morning, and I was the first customer in Le Pain Quotidien. I sat near the end of the large communal dining table, eating a croissant, drinking coffee, finishing The House of Mirth, and overidentifying with the doomed Lily Bart, when a foreign, middle-aged couple came in and settled across from me. As the place was empty, I found this slightly amusing\u2014so slightly that I wanted to knock their heads together and kick their chairs out from under them. I gave them a small smile and went back to my book. As Lily, unmarried and unable to support herself, lay dying of a chloral overdose, they sat doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. She: &amp;quot;Hotel in The Graduate, four letters.&amp;quot; He: &amp;quot;The Plaza?&amp;quot; She: &amp;quot;No! Plaza is five letters! Count them. P-L-A-Z-A.&amp;quot; He: &amp;quot;Ask me something else.&amp;quot; I signaled the waiter for my check, catching the woman&amp;#039;s eye. She nudged her husband and said sotto voce, &amp;quot;She looks cold.&amp;quot; He glanced up, nodded agreement, and, leaning close to her, began, &amp;quot;She looks like a woman who\u2014&amp;quot; the end of the sentence muffled by her hair. I wanted to beat it out of him with his Frommer&amp;#039;s guide. I look like a woman who what?...voted for Obama (yes)...never wed (true)...has cramps (major)...lives with a cat (no)...collects paper bags (guilty)...is past her prime (depends on the lighting)...hasn&amp;#039;t had sex in ages (how many ages?)...needs medicating (absolutely)...has multiple personalities (who, we?)...is lonely. &amp;quot;The Taft,&amp;quot; I said, getting up, pushing my chair back in. &amp;quot;It was the Taft Hotel.&amp;quot;  Walking home, I wondered how I looked to passersby. I&amp;#039;ve always prided myself on being the person people stop to ask for directions. She looks like a woman who is related to Magellan. I entered my building to the greeting I&amp;#039;ve heard for the past 20 years. &amp;quot;Hello, mamacita,&amp;quot; said Jeff, my Polish doorman, handing me my mail. On top was an invitation to the Stevens High School Reunion, class of &amp;#039;79. She looks like a woman who is old enough to go to a thirtieth high school reunion. And the only one who&amp;#039;s single and never been divorced! Where to begin with the time-defying overhaul sure to leave my solo status mindboggling to all who see me? Best to start with the neck up and then work my way down. I&amp;#039;m neck and neck with Nora Ephron when it comes to feeling bad about my neck. My editor Liesl feels bad about my neck too, so she goes with me to see Dr. Fredric Brandt, whose forever-young client list includes Madonna, Stephanie Seymour, and Ellen Barkin. Brandt has developed a Botox technique to lift the neck that&amp;#039;s so new, &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t have a term for it yet!&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;Twelve years ago, I developed the technique of injecting the platysmal bands for neck-lifting. Now I&amp;#039;ve improved the procedure to actually lift the muscles in the lower face through mixing and diluting the Botox and concentrating it in a different manner. We&amp;#039;re actually stimulating facial muscles, inducing a face-lift. It will definitely make a difference on you,&amp;quot; he says, swiveling my chin this way and that. He turns to Liesl: &amp;quot;You would do really well with it. You have more jowls then she has.&amp;quot; Liesl looks stricken. &amp;quot;We could do it on her so you see the difference. You know what I say? The more, the merrier.&amp;quot; The more, the merrier is Brandt&amp;#039;s motto when it comes to procedures, too. You can&amp;#039;t turn back the clock on one part of your face and leave the others telling a different time. On the counter sits a florist-type foam square blooming with dozens of syringes full of Botox, Restylane, Perlane, and Juv\u00E9derm each waiting to be picked to serve its purpose. &amp;quot;When I do this neck-lift, it&amp;#039;s part of everything,&amp;quot; Brandt says, studying my countenance with a critical eye. &amp;quot;I would love to add a little volume to your upper face, because your lower face is bigger than your upper.&amp;quot; Is that bad? &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not that you don&amp;#039;t look good, it&amp;#039;s just that we can make you look better. You need to build this up.&amp;quot; He pokes my upper cheeks. I never thought about my cheekbones; the hollows under my eyes are what bother me. &amp;quot;You think I didn&amp;#039;t see that?&amp;quot; he exclaims. &amp;quot;I want to add the volume here and give you a little lift here. You need a little volume in the corner there, and then of course you need some Botox to lift the brow\u2014and everything else I have in my bag of tricks.&amp;quot; After this I&amp;#039;ll need a new photo ID. Brandt exits to treat another patient while Liesl and I sit with numbing cream on our faces. She looks anxious, like, What have you gotten me into? Brandt walks in, snaps on rubber gloves, and plucks a Botox needle. &amp;quot;All this I&amp;#039;m showing you is strictly confidential,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;You can&amp;#039;t tell any other doctors!&amp;quot; What&amp;#039;s the big secret? &amp;quot;How you inject it. You inject certain muscles, relaxing them, and then stimulate compensatory muscles.&amp;quot; Brandt bends the needle and pokes Liesl again and again under her jawline. &amp;quot;How we doin&amp;#039;, Miss Liesl?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Fine. I have a high tolerance for pain,&amp;quot; she says. &amp;quot;I was six centimeters dilated before I went to the hospital.&amp;quot; (But as I recall, she threw up twice from the pain on the way there.) &amp;quot;Now, if you don&amp;#039;t see this...&amp;quot; Brandt hands her a mirror, &amp;quot;...this is really dramatic. Wow, look at Miss Liesl, do you see? That&amp;#039;s all picked up. It&amp;#039;s two inches higher.&amp;quot; I think I see it. Liesl thinks she can see it too: &amp;quot;How is it so instant?&amp;quot; she marvels. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s the way I inject it,&amp;quot; Brandt says. &amp;quot;I bend the needle so I can get it in at the angle I want. You know what they say, `Bend it like Beckham!&amp;#039; This lift will last about four or five months. Now I&amp;#039;ve got to put a little drop in your nose to make it go up.&amp;quot; Liesl: &amp;quot;My nose?&amp;quot; Brandt: &amp;quot;It hangs down. Come on! One little drop!&amp;quot; She: &amp;quot;I like my nose.&amp;quot; He: &amp;quot;But don&amp;#039;t you want it lifted? It will look much better.&amp;quot; Me: &amp;quot;Stick the needle in her nose!&amp;quot; Egged on by a mob of one, Brandt sticks the needle into the under tip of Liesl&amp;#039;s nose oh, that hurt\u2014and gives it a squirt of Botox. &amp;quot;There, done!&amp;quot; he declares. &amp;quot;Look at that, it&amp;#039;s not hanging anymore! How could I leave you with your nose hanging? It&amp;#039;s better; the tip is lifted, do you see?&amp;quot; Liesl takes the mirror and looks. &amp;quot;Wow, it is lifted.&amp;quot; A medical miracle? Or maybe her nose merely stood up to scream, &amp;quot;What the fuck was that?&amp;quot; My turn. Brandt injects my neck seemingly twice as much as Liesl&amp;#039;s, but it&amp;#039;s completely painless. &amp;quot;Now I&amp;#039;m going to give you a little filler-diller,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re going back to your thirtieth reunion, but you&amp;#039;ll look like you&amp;#039;re going back to your twentieth!&amp;quot; He breaks into song: &amp;quot;If they could see me now/ That old gang of mine/ I&amp;#039;m eatin&amp;#039; fancy food and drinkin&amp;#039; fancy wine/ I&amp;#039;ve got my neck lift-ed by Dr. Brandt....&amp;quot; He uses Perlane to replace the volume in my cheeks and give them a little lift, because as we age the fat there falls. &amp;quot;The nasal labial fold that everyone fills?&amp;quot; he says, pointing to the lines around my mouth. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s not the way to fix the problem. That&amp;#039;s a symptom of the fat pad dropping. So you fill the upper cheek area and not only take away the line, but make somebody aesthetically more pleasing.&amp;quot; In all my years of beauty adventuring, I&amp;#039;ve never stared down the barrels of so many syringes. I&amp;#039;m going to call Dr. Brandt &amp;quot;Pokeyman.&amp;quot; He laughs at this. &amp;quot;Do you want those mean little cheerleaders looking better than you do?&amp;quot; (My cheerleading career was cut short in junior high, when I got busted with a pint of peach schnapps in my locker.) &amp;quot;Is it hurting?&amp;quot; Dr. Pokeyman asks, injecting me for the umpteenth time. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not terrible, is it?&amp;quot; Not terrible, but somehow strenuous. &amp;quot;I do this to myself without numbing!&amp;quot; he boasts. &amp;quot;My friends say, `Don&amp;#039;t leave him alone! There&amp;#039;s nothing to do at night? He&amp;#039;ll grab the needle!&amp;#039;&amp;quot; Hence, his unlined visage and indeterminable age. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m 60! No facelift; check for scars. And the body\u2014can I show you?&amp;quot; He opens his lab coat and lifts his Prada sweater to reveal washboard abs: &amp;quot;Did you bring your laundry?&amp;quot; Wowza! But the real eyeopener was the Botox injection above each of my brows. It was like an insta-eye-lift that took a heavy load off my lids.  &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s a big change to your life,&amp;quot; Brandt says. No kidding. It&amp;#039;s literally a relief not having to raise my forehead to widen my range of vision. That alone should be covered by health insurance. Brandt admires his needlework. &amp;quot;Your cheeks look prettier, so natural. You&amp;#039;re going to want more! That&amp;#039;s what happens. And your eyes!&amp;quot; It took 60 minutes to look six years younger, and in six months I&amp;#039;ll age six years to where I was when I walked in the door, and I will rue the day I stuck my head in the fountain of youth and gulped greedily. Because I won&amp;#039;t have the time, energy, or small fortune to keep turning back the hands on the clock. But for now, I&amp;#039;m going to my thirtieth reunion, and I&amp;#039;m going to party like it&amp;#039;s 1979. Like Cinderella, I step into the ballroom of the Quality Inn, off I-90 in Rapid City, South Dakota, and this is what I find: Every face I see is truly beautiful\u2014even the ones I don&amp;#039;t immediately recognize. But especially those I do. Like my best friends, Kris and Julie and Kristol (all cheerleaders); my first love, Rocky; my unrequited crush, Dan; the adorable jocks Mark, Steve, and Tim; and my stoner pals from the B parking lot who hail &amp;quot;Howdy rowdy!&amp;quot; as I walk in the door. &amp;quot;Do you know what I loved about you?&amp;quot; says Julie, still looking like our beautiful homecoming queen. &amp;quot;You never judged anyone. You were friends with everybody.&amp;quot; Which led to a lot of fun and a little trouble. It&amp;#039;s ironic that I became such a harsh judge of myself. Is the constant internal criticism a geographical phenomenon? Is it New York City? Even amid the unconditional acceptance, I feel slightly self-conscious, while everyone else around me seems cozy in their skin. I gotta find out what meds they&amp;#039;re taking. &amp;quot;Holly Millea!&amp;quot; says a handsome stranger, picking me up off the floor. I vaguely remember dry-humping this guy at a drive-in. &amp;quot;Look at you! You&amp;#039;re like Dorian Gray. It&amp;#039;s Terril! Hey, do you remember how we&amp;#039;d make out in the back of the driver&amp;#039;s-ed car?&amp;quot; Hey, I was close. Julie, Kris, and Kristol steer me to the buffet, where we run into our friend Colleen, who married the theater teacher, Ron. That raised more eyebrows than even Botox could, but here they are, still in love. &amp;quot;You girls look just like you did in high school,&amp;quot; Colleen says. She does too. &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; I reply, &amp;quot;last week I had my neck cinched up and my cheekbones expanded.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Thank God you&amp;#039;ve left your eyes alone,&amp;quot; Jules says. &amp;quot;I did those, too,&amp;quot; I admit. Kris tells me I was lucky to be born with good skin. &amp;quot;MiXto laser,&amp;quot; I say. Within minutes, I&amp;#039;ve confessed to every cosmetic assault I&amp;#039;ve committed on myself, because apparently, along with everything else, Dr. Brandt injected me with a vial of truth serum! I feel relieved. And jealous. Here they are looking beautiful and they haven&amp;#039;t done a thing. &amp;quot;How do you know?&amp;quot; Kristol says. We all laugh. Says Kris, &amp;quot;Now we know who to call if we do.&amp;quot; That&amp;#039;s the best compliment ever. Someday you will come home from your high school reunion, and this is what you&amp;#039;ll find: Your arms will ache from all the hugging, and your heart will ache from all the letting go. You will say, &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s do this every five years!&amp;quot; because all the Botox and filler in the world won&amp;#039;t stop time from running out, and as one reunion-goer exclaimed, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m so happy to see everyone, even the people who were mean to me!&amp;quot; Whoever you are, you will come back looking like a woman who spent a weekend being loved. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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