The woman is frumpy and in late middle age, with drabbrown hair styled like the queen of England’s.
Oh my God, I know a woman with hair like that. It’sMartha, my principal! She turns her head toward the nurse walking beside her,and in that moment my worst suspicions are confirmed. She’s here. I quicklyclose the door and duck out of sight.
By the time Dr. Grossman comes into the room I am anemotional wreck. “I can’t do this!” I say, the tears welling up in my eyes.“It’s just crazy! It’s not who I am!” I tuck the paper gown under my butt.
“It’s okay, Lauren,” Dr. Grossman begins, sitting down onhis leather-covered stool and then wheeling over to my side. “So many womenfeel the way you do when beginning treatment with Botox or other fillers.” Hescratches his balding head, displacing a tiny tuft of white hair, and smiles upat me. “But I think you’ll find that, while the decision-making part of theprocess can be difficult, the rewards will immediately make up for anyconflicted feelings you are experiencing right now. In only two days, resultsmay be visible!”
“I’m such a liar,” I sob.
“Lying is a strong word for the most popularcosmetic procedure in America. I prefer to view this as an aesthetic fib.”
“It’s not just the Botox,” I try to explain. “It’severything. I’m having some honesty issues. At home, at work, in general.”
“Ah, I see. A midlife crisis, perhaps?” He opens my fileand takes a look. “You’re thirty-nine. Sounds like you are right on schedulefor yours.” He smiles wanly.
“Let me guess. If I just get Botox, all my problems willbe erased?” I joke.
“Well, no. These lines right here will be erased.”He hands me a tissue and gently examines the crease between my eyebrows. “Butthe rest is much harder to smooth over. Why do you think I became adermatologist instead of a psychiatrist?” He shrugs, moving across the room toprepare the syringe. “I wave my magic wand and miracles happen. In many cases,I can instantly make my patients happy. Not so with psychiatry.”
“So you’re saying I should quit seeing my shrink and justcome to you?”
The intercom beeps and a voice fills the room. “Dr.Grossman, call from Columbia Presbyterian on line two.”
He puts down the supplies and takes off his rubber gloves.“If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this. We’ve been playing phone tag allday. It’ll just be a minute.” He leaves me alone with my paper gown and somethoughts.
I haven’t seen my psychiatrist, Dr. Joan, for about a yearnow. Maybe I should have gone to her office today instead of here, I consider,fighting off the nausea building in my throat. But then I remember: I alwaysleave her office crying, and there are never any visible results. It’s anendless loop. Time’s up, come back next week and we’ll keep talking aboutyour lame, upper-middle-class problems. For years and years and years!
Time to try something new.
That’s what Dr. Joan always wanted for me, after all, tobreak out of my rut. What would she say? You suffer from Good Girl syndrome.Don’t always worry about what other people will think of you, if they willapprove of your decisions, your clothing, your actions. All those competingvoices are keeping you from shaping your life your own way. Dig deep and decidewhat’s right for you. Then you can go out and find it.
Dr. Grossman coughs as he re-enters the room. He crossesto the counter to get a new pair of gloves from the box, then adjusts theglasses on the bridge of his nose. “So. Are we ready to do this?” he asks,handing me a mirror and scooting to my side on his wheelie stool.
“Indeed!” I chirp, doubts erased, looking at my face as hecontinues. It comes out perhaps a bit louder than necessary, making Dr.Grossman jump a little.
“Okay, then. I’d like to start by just injecting this areabetween the eyebrows, called the glabellar lines. They are creating this numbereleven you’ve got right there, and they tend to make one seem angry. Botox isreally good at freezing these muscles and smoothing them out. You’re young,still, so this treatment might be enough. If not, as a second line of defense,I’d have you come back and I’d use a filler like Restylane to plump it up.Okay?”
To me it sounds like blahblahblahblahblah, followedby a cash register opening, cha-ching!
“Yup!” I gush. “Okay!” My heart is beating wildly. Thisdecision has released so much adrenaline that I have to mentally try to slow myinsides down. Deep breaths, Lauren. In and out.
The needle advances.
“Now, you’re going to feel a pinch. There. And another,there. And one more. And…done.”
He hands me some gauze soaked in alcohol and tells me tohang tight for a while, holding the swab over the sight of my former elevens.“Remember, these are surface changes, Lauren. They will help, but they won’tsolve what’s really bothering you. I’ve been removing those warts from yourfeet for thirty years.” Dr. Grossman removes his gloves and clasps his handstogether. “And so I know that you know what really matters.You’ll figure it out,” he adds, opening the door and waving a good-bye.
A mellow old sage, with all the confidence in the worldthat I will do right.
Dr. Grossman is like my very own Yoda.
I try to pay the (very expensive) bill quickly andwithout bumping into Martha. I locate a pair of slightly crooked sunglasses inthe bottom of my handbag and put them on. Martha’s voice carries down the hall,and, just as it gets louder, she turns the corner and I pass through the woodenoffice door and out of sight.
I hope there is some confusion about Martha’s insurancethat significantly delays her exit.
I consider taking the stairs to ensure a fast departure,but get sidetracked by my appearance in the elevator bank’s wavy silver doors.
My forehead looks pretty normal, though there is somestinging at the precise points where the toxin was injected. It’s hard to tellexactly how much bruising there is, since it’s kind of dark in
