On Friday night, Shawn and I went out on our date night. This post, however, is not about that. This is about something that happened before date night.
Just before the girls and I got ready to leave to meet Shawn, I decided I wanted to take a picture of me and all my fabulousness. I determined the only way to do this, was to take a picture in the mirror.
So, I did. But, when I looked at it, I saw something weird. So, I took another one. And another one. And another one.
I thought something must be on the lens, but there wasn’t. So I zoomed in on the picture to see if I saw anything that way, and that’s when I saw it. Actually, I shouldn’t say “it,” I should say “them.” I saw them.
Wrinkles. Right around my eyes.
Don’t panic (I’m mostly talking to myself here). I figure I have two options. Option one:
(This was right before dinner, but it was sunny, so the sunglasses were totally legit.)
So, option one is sunglasses. Sunglasses 24/7. At first I thought this might be a viable option. But, after much thought I’ve decided it would be hard to pull this look off in Michigan. Also, it might be a little weird at work.
Ok. Option two:
This is clearly the best option. I was, however, worried that Shawn might pitch a fit about this. So, I started writing a speech for him about how if he wanted to continue being married to a MILF, then we were just going to have to work Botox into our budget.
But, then something happened. The universe smiled on me. Yes, you heard me. The universe wants me to have Botox. It’s true. Three things happened, almost all at once.
- I got a check in the mail that day for $200 from the company my first set of implants was from. I was not expecting this at all! Maybe they sent it to me for my pain and suffering?
- Also in the mail was a flyer from my plastic surgeon’s office! And what do you know? The flyer was all about Botox, skin rejuvenation, and such.
- After looking at my calendar, I realized I already have an appointment scheduled with my plastic surgeon in 2 weeks!
Is it bad that I just referenced “my plastic surgeon” twice? That makes it sound like I go there all the time. Or, like I have him on speed dial. Which, I don’t. Well, maybe I do. Ok, ok. I have him on speed dial. But, come on. If you had an upside down boob last summer, you would have the boob doctor on speed dial too.
Anyboob. Back to the Botox. I told Shawn the whole thing about the universe wanting me to get Botox. He wasn’t impressed. He wasn’t even impressed that the Boob God’s had sent me money towards the Botox. I think he was just jealous. I told him maybe if he prayed harder for his flat screen and sound-bar, that he just might get a check in the mail too.
That’s when he accused me of farting feathers. I have no idea what that means, and it turns out Google doesn’t know either. I think it’s code for: I’m still mad at that 6th grader who thinks you should be married to Patrick Dempsey.
P.S. After my last post, my cousin and lifetime partner in crime, Hillary, suggested that during Lent I title all my posts with a Facebook status update. So, even though today’s title is increasingly embarrassing, I’m going to attempt this. It can’t get any worse than “Tami is farting feathers,” can it?