Botox

A purified form of a weird protein produced by the not your friend Botulinus bacteria which is usually found in rotting meat. For centuries it was a terrible and dangerous poison, in the 21st century insane and neurotic middle-aged women inject it into their faces. Not making this up totally bro.

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Worst of all, I can’t properly emote. During dinner the other night, a friend was recounting a harrowing tale of trauma she had recently endured, and I had to stop her mid-story.

“I apologize,” I told her, “but I had my face frozen so you aren’t seeing what I’m really feeling right now which is shock and sadness and horror. Just know that I love you?”

I repeated modified versions of this refrain to my therapist, to my ex, to my mother and sister. One of them admitted to having it done to alleviate migraine pain, so here, buried deep in this story, is a disclaimer: there are plenty of medical uses for Botox aside from treating strabismus, and I’m not addressing or criticizing those here. We’re strictly talking about the use of Botox for cosmetic enhancement.

The past few weeks have actually been not just physically odd, but emotionally trying. I’m severely self-conscious for the first time since high school. Not being able to feel a part of your body that you use constantly as a means of relating to other people is intensely frustrating. (Scarily, there’s evidence that not being able to express empathy through mimicry and mirroring inhibits the ability to feel empathy. Yikes.) I feel sort of like a mannequin come to life, and it’s a creepy, out-of-body experience. Unlike with my friends and the guy at Starbucks and my cab driver, I can’t really explain to my two-year-old why her mom’s face doesn’t move the way it used to; why I can’t do any of this fun stuff she’s so fond of:

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—--whine whine whine