Pickling the Ivories

I had a bad day yesterday. Nothing earth shattering, but unpleasant all the same. Stupidity I wish I could undo, disappointment on the face of my daughter that no amount of mama bear love can fix. She appears to be just fine. I still ache.

Come to think of it, I've had a string of bad days. Earlier in the week, my dentist diagnosed me as a chronic clencher. My teeth are on the verge of becoming stubs, their premature erosion an unsightly barometer of my stress level. Knowing me as he does, he assumed it would be pointless to suggest I simply stop stressing, so he offered me what he thought was a better and more realistic option. Botox. Inside my cheeks, mind you, so there would be no collateral benefit to the wrinkles on the outside. The botox would simply weaken my jaw so that I could clench to my heart's content without spending the rest of my days gazing at a set of teeth smiling at me through a glass on the nightstand.

I'm not all that keen on injecting poison into any part of my body, particularly if it doesn't make me look younger or thinner. No doubt when I get through the simultaneous hormonal havoc of peri-menopause and my daughter's teenage years and my abject fear of being destitute and my extreme aversion to writing my own resume (I have no problem with helping others sell their wares) my jaws will unclench and maybe, with any luck, my teeth will have a fighting chance.

Which, naturally, still does nothing to stem the deepening of the crevices on my cheeks. Yep, the bad days have been going on for a while now. Minding my own business in Bloomingdale's last weekend (actually, escaping the sheer madness of watching my mother shop for my daughters and indoctrinate them with her somewhat rigid views on fashion), I was accosted by a young sales clerk. "You look amazing," she told me. Assuming it was my remarkable sense of style and the relaxed look on my face from the anxiety pill I popped before heading out, I fell for it, reveling momentarily in what was clearly my head turning effortless beauty. "Come with me," she continued. "I want to show you something."

My confidence soaring, I followed her, certain she was about to introduce me to an agent who would launch my mid life modeling career. Not so much. She ushered me into a chair by a table filled with all sorts of miracle anti-aging creams and potions. My hopes of new found fame and fortune (and becoming the envy of fifty-somethings everywhere) were dashed as I realized what she had really meant was "you look amazing for someone so ancient." She might just as well have called me "well-preserved," or, worse still, "a handsome woman."

While I despaired, she went to work, dabbing my left eye and left cheek with so much goo I looked as if I had just fallen asleep with the left side of my face planted in a plate full of butter. "It's like botox," she assured me. Why is it that everyone is pushing botox on me? "Take a look, the difference is incredible." I took the hand mirror, which happened to be on the magnifying side so I could see right through all my pores to the back of my skull. By then on the verge of tears, I took the liberty of flipping it to the other, slightly less frightening side. The only difference I could detect was the sheen. Shiny wrinkles on the left, matte wrinkles on the right. And to think the products, combined, would only cost about six hundred dollars.

I escaped with as much dignity as I could, explaining I would be back because, really, how could I continue to parade myself around looking this way. The young sales clerk with the plump, smooth cheeks gave me her best fake smile (retail-speak for "fuck you"), barely masking the disdain she felt for my slovenliness, not to mention the complete waste of her precious time. Needless to say, I was clenching my teeth.

The wrinkles, the stubby teeth, the poverty, the crushing disappointment of not being discovered as supermodel material at the ripe old age of fifty-three, they may indeed all have my jaw in the permanent clench position. They don't make my heart ache though, so really, who gives a shit? If I could only find a cure for my daughter's disappointment, erase the forced cheerful smile on her beautiful young face, I'd gladly make the best of my own toothless grin.