I’ve developed bags under my eyes I could smuggle heroin in they are that deep. I’m sleeping like a bear, watching my salt so it must be those dreaded hormones I’ve managed to outrun all this time. I was told, after fifty, funny things could happen to your skin like brown spots and shadows. I had no idea I’d be needing an eye job.
The idea of plastic surgery scares me to death. The thought of someone cutting open my skin to remove some is terrorizing. But what does a girl do when cucumbers have let her down. I’ve spent a small fortune to place them over my eyes every chance I get. I even carry some in a baggy (how apt) in case I can recline while waiting in line.
Do you think the United States Post Office, for instance, would mind if I stretched out till I heard NEXT!
Cukes reducing swelling is a myth. One of those Oprah tips she’s famous for, but where is she when yours is on the fritz? I even bought organic thinking they’d be better. Another rumor, and once they’re on your eyes for three quarters of an hour you really can’t add them to your salad, now can you. No, it’s a no-win all the way around.
Cover ups…I’ve cornered the market on every recommended concealer including one little item that rivaled my cable bill. All it does is make you look like you were spackled and not painted yet, like a wall that was caving in.
I’ve tried hot and cold compresses, steeped tea bags. I even went to see Madam Lavinia. No she’s a facialist, not a fortune teller, but that’s not a bad idea. Maybe one could tell me how long they’ll be sticking around. Perhaps a potion is in order. Camille knows a woman in Queens who said I’d have to bring her a live raccoon. I wonder why she assumed I wouldn’t be interested.
I guess I’ve just been spoiled never having these issues before. With the exception of a little lapsed libido, I feel like a girl of 42.
Now I know why Jackie O wore those humungous glasses…she must have had them too.