With a name like mine (which incidentally dates me to being born sometime in the 50’s or 60’s, unlike “Elizabeth”, which is timeless–thanks mom), when someone calls your name, you generally know what part of the country you are in. Here in the south, my name ranges from “Shirrrlll,” to the generic “honey” and “darlin,’” often tossed about like a friendly hug via southern osmosis.
I recently traveled up north, to visit my Yankee relatives, some of whom now reside in northern New Jersey… where I am called “Shah-roll.” My Yankee family welcomes us with open arms; there is home-cooked food (prepared faster: think great sauerkraut), and all the northern hospitality you could want. But I have become a true transplant: I sure do love the south!
My first priority upon arrival is to hang out with the 25 adult dogs and two litters of puppies at my uncle’s Brittany breeding utopia–such a fun diversion. The dogs are fantastic and the puppies irresistible. With slight trepidation, I turn my attention to the visit with my cousin, who happens to be a plastic surgeon.
This is an issue, because now I am old enough to flunk even a cursory look by his well-trained eyes. He loves me for who I am but I know what he will be thinking: “sun damage, wrinkles, deep creases, slouchy look; she let herself go!” Those minor flaws aside, I have been wondering for some time: just WHO IS the loathsome diabolical individual who thought himself so clever as to apply the name of a formerly loved baked good to one of the more common afflictions resulting from having a child. I am referring, of course, to what is now known as a “muffin-top.” Cruel, cruel, the accuracy of that word coinage—one rued by many a mother.
Therefore, just for fun, and only for fun, I will be asking my cousin about a tummy tuck. I tentatively ran this by the head-of-household and primary encourager at my house. I was told that this was entirely unnecessary, a bad example for our kids concerning values and priorities, as well as a total waste of money, family discount or not. Not to be totally defeated, I timidly threw out a desire for perhaps a bit of Botox – to soften the ever-present scowl trying to make its way into prominence and which is deepening by the second as we speak? His kindly, gentle response: “Absolutely not. Once you start things like this, you can’t decide when to stop.” I want to argue, but I wonder if he’s right.
I politely inform him that some of my generation has been handling this aging situation in a mature way for quite some time. Where we once pushed strollers, hauled diaper bags and strapped little people in and out of car seats, these days find us out playing tennis, teaching our kids to drive, and watching them play umpteen sports. Behind the scenes, some are trying “facial procedures,” getting their eyes “done” and considering certain other surgical options. It is happening all around us. So much so that I’m beginning to feel left out. Many in my cohort are suddenly looking downright dewy, with forehead creases nothing but faint memories replaced by smooth glowing skin. Am I feeling restrained jealousy?
Then there’s the more dramatic. I point out that there are many gals who are a whole lot bustier than I remembered; has the head of household noticed? His answer: “of course not?”
Liar.
In an effort to test the waters and bolster the case for the tummy tuck, I glibly point out that if one were to enhance the bust perhaps in contrast the stomach would look smaller. I am caught by surprise at the lack of response to this suggestion. Methinks thou dost not protest enough?
Hypocrite.
The visit with my cousin dearest went great. He is a wonderful, talented guy who is immensely respected in his field. Mostly I love him because he is my cool cousin. I had big ideas, but I chickened out on the botox et al. In an unforeseen turn of events, one of the 15 already-claimed Brittany puppies became un-claimed just as our visit wrapped up. Said puppy is now at home in my kitchen.
Pipe dreams of coming back to Roanoke looking anywhere from “rested” to “fabulous” have evaporated into a regressive lifestyle of housetraining a young puppy and placating the dethroned family dog. I am finding new gray hair and deeper wrinkles by the hour.
Just how did I go from a tummy tuck to a pot-bellied puppy? At least the kids think I have my values and priorities straight!
