“I’ll never get Botox! Ever”, says the ripe, peachy keen 20 something with conviction. “I mean, I just know I’ll never do that to myself”. Don’t you love the word “never” coming from someone who’s, god willing, only lived 20% of their life. Sentiments said with such gusto and surety that you might actually believe her. Looking at her slippery, polished forehead, you too would agree. Youth is wasted on the young, that’s another post for another time, but just imagine you could have the experience of birthing a 10-pound baby, getting some true hard knocks and learn about fortitude and grace and still have your face look like it’s been injected with liquid marshmallows. But I digress…
I was that girl. Proclaiming from the rooftop that I would never inject some foreign, poisonous substance in to my face. How barbaric. Botox hit an internal discord in my soul and was against every natural philosophy I believed in. But then I turned 30. Small grooves started to form on my face. Showcasing all my days I’d lived. All the people I’d loved. All my losses, my child, the fights, the laugher, the pain, the joy. All there for the world to see for the first time. And I felt exposed.
Listen: How does it feel to get botox? Post continues after audio…
So what now? Was I meant to embrace the lines that proved that I have lived a colorful life or am I meant to erase them so my forehead blends in with my 30 something counterparts. And then, how can I explain this to my impressionable child? We, as parents, spend our days obsessively instilling strength, and self love and compassion for oneself into our children but how can they possibly respect our words when our actions are in conflict?