I finally did it. I lost my virginity. Yes, I have a child, and no, I’m not talking about sex. I finally decided to turn my frown lines upside down, so to speak, with a needle full of Botox.
Talking with friends, I think I might have been one of the last women in Forest Hill to lose it. And it wasn’t an easy decision. Choosing the right guy to lose it to was a roller coaster of emotions that had me feeling like a panicky teenager. Was he the right guy to lose it to? Was this the right time for me to lose it? Will I regret not waiting longer? Will it hurt? Will people notice the change in me?
I chose this particular doctor because he seems to be the one everyone knows at every high- profile party and event I’ve recently attended. As one socialite trying to sell me on seeing him put it, “He’s the man everyone knows but pretends not to.”
I was confident I could count on his discretion. Unlike losing your actual virginity, I knew I didn’t have to worry he’d tell his friends in the locker room that he just deflowered Rebecca Eckler.
At events where I’ve run into him, I always ask, “So, how many women have you done in this room?” I can’t help it. I’m curious. He always just throws his head back and laughs. Even after a few cocktails, I can never get anything out of him.
“If I attend a wedding or an event, I’ve usually Botoxed a number of people there and, sometimes when they see me, patients panic that I’ll blow their cover, but I never do,” he says. Everyone else in my circle of f riends has lost theirs (some years ago), and they kept referring me to their doctor, giving me a complex that I needed to get something done. I thought peer pressure was a high school thing?
I was scared to get the needle. But, according to my doctor, I’m not his worst patient. “I had one woman in her mid 30s who was so nervous to get Botox that she had two girlfriends that I had treated drag her in and hold her hands. She was sweating buckets and would barely sit still,” he explains. “The injections can be done in a matter of minutes, but it took me a half an hour because she kept needing breaks. Her friends were laughing their heads off. Anyway, she came back two weeks later loving the results and wanted more in her forehead. Then again, she came back two weeks later. She couldn’t get enough. And now she’s been coming regularly every four months. She bakes me cookies. She called me from the hospital, when her baby was born, to say she was coming to see me the day after she was out of the hospital.”
Getting Botox wasn’t as romantic as I’d hoped. There were no candles. There was no red wine. No foreplay. No Axel Rose singing “November Rain,” in the background.
One moment I was lying on a chair, and the next thing I knew I was being stuck with needles in my frown lines. At least the time it took was about the same as my virginity — about five minutes! There was no cuddling, but latex was involved. Gloves! I’m talking about gloves!
After the procedure, the doctor told me to frown deliberately for 20 minutes after so the Botox can get into the muscles that need relaxing. I had arrived at his office, looking pretty ridiculous, wearing sunglasses, as if I were a celebrity not wanting to be seen. I swear, if I didn’t think I’d stand out more wearing a ball cap and scarf around my face, I would have worn that, too.
I’m such a hypocrite. Last year, I came down hard on a C-list TV personality for blogging that Botox was the “greatest invention ever.” Excuse me? Cookie dough ice cream is the greatest invention. Botox? Well, I’m still not sure. As a woman who really does believe in aging gracefully, I didn’t want to become a Bo-ho!
When I left his office, I followed his instructions and got my frown on. Walking down Yonge Street to my car, I kept it up, and I swear a woman draped in designer duds with a little, fashion-accessory dog in her arms looked at me knowingly. The only thing missing was a discreet nod of the head. It felt like I was a member of a new secret society.
I remember losing my actual virginity and coming home worried that my mother would be able to tell something was different about me. She couldn’t. Back then, I immediately called my best friend to tell her what happened, just like I did this time. My friend, who hasn’t gotten Botox yet (though she did ask for his number), wanted to hear about the entire experience.
I did notice results 48 hours later. The skin was definitely smoother and had less lines. My daughter no longer asked if I was mad. The frown lines were gone. I felt, well, I felt 35. I look maybe 34. Will I go back? Ask me in six months or a year. Or, if you see me on the street, just say, “You look kind of angry, Eckler.” I’ll take that as a hint.
