Plastic Surgery:

By Annabelle Gurwitch, author of the new aging memoir, I See You Made an Effort, on wrinkles and regrets

Ever since the day I glimpsed myself in a hallway mirror and wondered if perhaps my mother had come to town for a visit, I've found it impossible to resist the siren song of age-defying innovations available to the woman d'un certain âge. It's not an exaggeration to say that I've sampled a bit of everything—a kind of dermatological tapas plate. I've filled, frozen, lasered, and had things injected into my face that I suspect may not even be legal in all 50 states.

The now ubiquitous Botox was my gateway drug. I started with regular injections above my eyebrows, then graduated to my crow's-feet and, eventually, my softening jawline. While it does seem to reduce wrinkles, it also impedes speaking, but as I am the mother of a teenager, this can be a useful side effect. In addition, I believe I've been getting Juvéderm filler, but for all I know it might be Jell-O or Krazy Glue. Once, I was treated to one too many syringes and spent the winter and a good part of spring 2010 resembling a close relative of the chipmunk. Another time, a doctor who had won me over with his "conservative" approach persuaded me to have Restylane, another filler, pumped into my hairline. He assured me that it would draw attention to my eyes. It did, but it also created extra angles on my forehead, leaving me looking like a Picasso.

I was a C-minus science student, so I don't pretend to understand the technology behind radio frequency energy, but that hasn't stopped me from plunking down a small fortune on what are often touted as "noninvasive" face-lifts. A few years back I paid $2,500 for something called Thermage, which is pronounced like "massage" but feels more like electroshock therapy. Sadly, the radio frequency zapped into my cheeks didn't erase my memory of a procedure so intense that I thought I was secretly being filmed for an episode of Homeland. Last year I ponied up for a round of Fractora, which promised similar results to Thermage, minus the discomfort. One side of my face looks a bit firmer now, or does it? It all depends on the time of day, the angle I'm viewed from, the amount of salt I've consumed, what I'm wearing, the weather, and if I've had my hair professionally styled.

Gurwitch at 39

Courtesy Annabelle Gurwitch

The upside to all of these seductively marketed cosmetic offerings, typically referred to as maintenance, is that the recovery time is minimal, but so are the gains. I've found it to be a zero-sum game. You look the very best immediately after-ward while your face is slightly swollen; the puffiness restores lost volume. Once that goes away, the results, if noticeable at all, quickly begin to fade, until you look exactly the same as you did the day you forked over an amount that an entire family in Turkmenistan could live on for a year.
When I turned 40, I became convinced I had a genetic problem. And I do—I am predisposed to look as tired as I actually am. To combat this phenomenon, I had a simple procedure known as a lower blepharoplasty (the classic eye job), which consisted of a 40-minute surgery to remove my 40-year-old under-eye bags. During my monthlong recovery, I wrestled with a critical case of buyer's remorse. Had I tampered with an essential part of myself? As it turned out, by fixing one issue, I created another. Without their shadowy undercarriages, my eyes looked noticeably smaller. Also, I missed those bags. They were sort of … shabby chic.

Gurwitch at 52

Courtesy Annabelle Gurwitch

I wish I had filmed my surgeon's reaction when I asked if he could please restore my under eyes to their original condition. His features contorted into either bemusement or horror—it was hard to tell because he's gone a little heavy on the Botox himself. I declined his offer to remove fat cells from my behind and inject them under my eyes (if fat is going to leave my body, I'd prefer never to see it again). Since that time, the skin in question has thinned and the hollow space become more pronounced. This effect is mitigated only by wearing glasses, which is convenient because reading spectacles have become my new must-have accessory.
Lately I've begun to notice a little jowliness, which I inherited from my father. But a mini-lift has the maxi price of $25,000, and I'm just not prepared to go down that surgical road. Instead I've come up with a low-cost, low-tech plan to thwart gravity's evil machinations: I will no longer look down. I'll only be walking upstairs and skipping Downward Facing Dog. Even down-home cooking is off the table (so to speak). All things pointing south will be verboten to me—except if I get a gobbler. Then all bets are off.