Disappointments

I. I read recently that if one must choose only one anti-aging procedure, one should choose to have one's teeth whitened. Who am I to dispute the wisdom of a woman's magazine? Thus yesterday, armed with a coupon, I had my teeth "professionally whitened." Translation: I spent 30 minutes with my mouth clamped around a large mold filled with foaming bleach and trying not to gag on the ever-widening pool of spit in my mouth. And then the very nice woman gave me a mirror and exclaimed, "Isn't that amazing?" Except it wasn't. Just my ol' teeth, perhaps marginally, oh-so-subtly whiter. Certainly no one will look at me and say, "My, isn't she looking youthful?"

II. Last week I finally received the doctor's release from my post-surgery boot. When I walked into the hair salon, Haircutter Guy greeted me with an enthusiastic "Hey! Hurray! No boot!!" And then continued, "But awwww, look, she has to wear those special clodhopper orthodopedic shoes." Except they weren't special shoes. They were just, you know, my regular, ordinary, "umm, what's wrong with these" shoes.

III. Awhile back I invested vast sums in a Clinique's Repairwear Laser Focus Wrinkle and UV Damage Corrector. According to Macy's, "At 12 weeks, the visible wrinkle-reducing power is remarkably close to a dermatological laser procedure. 63%, to be exact." Hmm. I didn't take Before and After photos (as Hugh sternly points out), but, well, I don't think I quite made it into the 63% range. I switched to a less expensive ROC product that in appearance and consistency exactly replicated the alien ooz that coats Bill Murray in his classic scene in Ghostbusters: "I've been slimed. . . I feel so funky." I ended up giving it away in our regular Christmas tacky gift exchange. (Hey, one year I received a bag of 1980s shoulder pads.) Now I'm on an Olay product that looks and smells just like sour cream. Fitting, as my face increasingly resembles a baked potato.