This afternoon, in a rare fit of extravagance, I bought the magazine, In Touch Weekly. Apparently I’ve been extremely out of touch, because I’d never heard of this thing. But I have heard of this thing called plastic surgery that all the kids are talking about, and I do confess that I am both fascinated and disgusted by it. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, and often both at the same time.
The glossy cover caught my eye when I passed by the newsstand on East 34th Street where it was displayed. I wanted to buy it, but didn’t want the man who runs the newsstand to think I was shallow and stupid. I didn’t want him to think this is the only sort of literature I enjoy. Indeed, I was ashamed and didn’t want him to think I was anything less than a highly intelligent woman on the go who was suffering a lapse in judgment and taste, so I bought six copies of Time, a bottle of spring water, a pack of Doublemint (serious gum, not the silly kind that makes bubbles), and the big back-to-school issue of Juggs.
Imagine my shock when I flipped through the pages of In Touch Weekly and found this among the “Before and After” photos:
I have never had any “work” done. No implants, no Botox, no injections. Someone is clearly out to get me, and I know who it is. She’s a high-paid movie star who’s just jealous that I managed to achieve naturally what she had to pay $350,000 to approximate. I won’t name names, but her ex-husband’s name rhymes with “Moose Zillis”.