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Misadventures in Motherhood: Who Wants a New Vajayjay for Christmas?

 

I don't consider myself a fickle person, but unfortunately I have a bizarre tendency to adopt ridiculous fads once I've been exposed to them long enough.  Take capri pants, for example.

When capris first came out and women across the country began walking around in pants that stopped at their calves, I thought—damn, that looks freaking ridiculous.  I shall never wear that.  Well, after a summer or two of seeing my fellow ladies blithely—and often proudly—exposing their cankles, I began to waver. Then one day I was browsing through Target and I saw a rack of capris, and I thought—what the hell—I might as well try on a pair.  Twenty minutes later I had purchased a set in every color, and as I marched to the car with my bags of loot, I smugly congratulated myself on being "on trend."  I modeled the pants for my husband, who asked me what the hell I was thinking.  I didn't have an answer.

My dislike for capri pants was nothing, however, compared to my general opposition to cosmetic procedures.  I have always been staunchly opposed to plastic surgery and cosmetic injectables, fillers and all that fake stuff that people stick into their bodies.  When Botox made its debut, I went on a bit of a righteous rampage.  I believe I shouted something to the effect of, "The name of the product has the word 'toxin' right in it!  What idiot would get poison injected into her face?" 

So you can imagine how surprised I was when I found myself pausing to read the Botox advertisement in my Glamour magazine the other day.  The ad featured an ageless, beautiful woman who gazed calmly at the camera with a look on her face that seemed to say, "Look how lucky and smart I am!  Don't you want to be pretty too?"

I walked to the bathroom and scrutinized my face in the mirror.  I frowned at the little creases in my face, but this motion only succeeded in making the furrows much more obvious. I forced myself to unscrunch my face, did some ridiculous facial shake-out maneuver that created a sound that was half "raspberry" and half gargle, and resumed perusing the article with curiosity.

I read through all the carefully crafted promotional speak and was starting to think that Botox might not be that bad after all... until I came to the part where they listed all the possible adverse reactions to it.  I bent closer to the magazine to read the small text, and there—in tiny little print—it said "Botox could cause death."

Um, holy crap... what?

So, you mean, I could go in for a simple facial line-softening procedure and... die?  I ripped out the page, crumpled it into a ball and angrily threw it in the trash.  I then spent the next week being disgusted with myself for being taken in by a Botox ad in the first place. What was happening to me?  I became convinced that our society was going to hell, courtesy of Hollywood and pop culture. 

Then, last night, I happened to see a post on Masshole Mommy's blog discussing Vaginal Rejuvenation.  Apparently Masshole Mommy had been harassed by so many radio advertisements for vaginal rejuvenation that she felt she needed to address it publicly.  I had to admit my curiosity was piqued.

 

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