Reverse Aging? (Bye, Botox!)

Last Tuesday, I was working on a forthcoming post while on the subway en route to a foot-Botox appointment. It was my second time-consuming-but-boring obligation of the afternoon, and the day had been otherwise busy, leaving me with little time to write or do other things I find more fulfilling and rewarding than running errands and doing chores. Never one to accept that I can’t hypercontrol every aspect of my life, I was a little annoyed and very eager to go back to being productive in accordance with my narrow definition of the term.

A rattle granted to me courtesy the Toronto Transit Commission shook me out of my state of discontent. I chuckled—out loud—and ignored the cautious eyes of my fellow passengers, who undoubtedly wished they could inconspicuously move away before I erupted into a more menacing display of emotion. You’ve been out most of the day, alone, I reminded myself. Enjoy what you’ve earned. Stop living three steps ahead of yourself. And then I shifted my attention from the blog post to a crossword puzzle.

Duly self-chastised, I arrived at the hospital with a better attitude and a prolonged puzzle streak. Still, the purpose of my visit was to have a toxic substance injected into my nerves, so I understandably wasn’t in the greatest of all moods.

I checked in and was soon ushered into the treatment room. Since it’s always the same nurse I see before the doctor herself, I’ve developed a bit of a rapport with her (on the very, very, very slight off chance you’re reading this, congrats again on your new granddaughter!), and she’s tracked my progress at three-month intervals. I swear she remembers if I’ve changed my nail polish, which is never a given. Her memory is truly a wonder.

“Wow,” she commented as I transferred from chair to bed. “You look incredible. What’re you doing differently?”

“Living my best, most independent life,” I truthfully replied. This, I thought, was an auspicious start. The nurse, now one of my favourite people in the world, finished the initial examination and left to report the results to the doctor.

A few minutes later, that doctor—a lovely woman who’s earned my trust and respect, neither of which I yield particularly easily—breezed in. She examined my foot (which remains kind of mangled as a result of the unfortunate, in-retrospect-completely-avoidable power-chair incident I mentioned in my last post), noted how swollen it was, and suggested, without shaming me for not having already done so, that I should get it imaged ASAP (I’m on it, I swear). She then homed in on my big toe, the primary target of the Botox shot.

“It’s actually much better,” she said. “We can do the injection if you want, but I don’t think it really needs it.”

I readily accepted the no-needle option. She assured me that she’d get me in quickly if I changed my mind and decided to subject myself to unnecessary pain after all, we spent a few minutes talking about one of my favourite subjects, namely my vastly better health, and I zoomed out of the hospital and into a nearby cafe, where I rewarded myself with an extremely satisfying muffin. I’d much rather a carbohydrate-laden pastry than a neurotoxic protein enter my body any day of the week.

I’m proud of that toe and how far it’s come. A+ for you, appendage! At the risk of seeming as immodest as I apparently am, I’ll admit that I’m proud of myself, too. This improvement, another milestone, isn’t the result of pure luck or the passing of time. Rather, it’s another example of what prioritizing what matters can get you. Happy toe, happy life.

I’ll conclude by stating the obvious: that graduating from Botox means that I’m reverse-aging. I’m basing this not only on my toe’s rejuvenation but also on additional evidence suggesting that this is the case. Take my insistence that my birthday celebrations this year include an ice-cream cake and a piñata, for example. Next thing you know, I’ll realize my childhood fantasy of living in a house with a trampoline-floored playroom—or my other, of attending boarding school. A boarding school for world-class trampolinists? Hey, a girl can dream.