The Oscars—my Superbowl Sunday. On Oscar day you’ll find me parked in front of the TV watching the pre-game chatter and the post-game highlights. On this, the most lavish of Sundays, I don my fanciest of frocks, pop the bubbly, and nibble on classy hors d’oeuvres—like pigs-in-blankets and mini gherkins (Oh, yes, I go all out). I am poised and ready for an entire day of TV interloping. But more exciting than speculating which winner will grace Oprah’s show the next day, I can use this massive soiree to indulge in my tiny obsession. I can use this day to stare freely and with great abandon. It’s award shows like this I find myself overtly ogling. Nope, I’m not gawking at the intricacy of dresses, the volume of hair, or the platformed-ness of shoes (alright—sometimes the platformed-ness of shoes). I am staring at something all together different—foreheads. I'm obsessed with celebrity foreheads.
In the last five years, if your face has graced a popular TV show or been in a movie, and you have a forehead, rest assured I am sitting at home looking to see if your celebrity brow has been frozen into wrinkle-free submission or if it's free to play with the rest of your face. Have you visited the controversial Land of Botox lately? When you smile do laugh lines appear? When you cry do frown lines turn down? I'm obsessed with how your forehead moves when laughing, pouting, or quietly contemplating going to commercial. Your lines intrigue me. Oh, I should clarify—not lines of dialogue but your “11” Lines, frown lines, and surprise lines.
Big screen or little screen, I am constantly hounded by jowls and preoccupied with where crows feet have landed. What started out as a just a slight curiosity has evolved into a distracting compulsion. This compulsiveness is making it challenging for me to do the everyday things I used to love do—like watching a movie. My husband and I LOVE to watch movies together. This is one of our weekly pastimes. TiVo changed our life, and Netflix is a Godsend. But I’m finding it harder and harder to FOCUS, more and more difficult to go to a “galaxy far far away.” Due to my obsession, it’s hard to focus on the little things, like, say…the plot. "Eat, Pray, Love" was a murder mystery, right?
A lot of the celebrities I grew to love in my young adulthood are well into their late forties and early fifties now. Some seem to be growing old naturally while others are naturally considering botox. I’m fascinated by the choices my ladies seem to be making. I’m fascinated because as my face and I grow older, and I see those “11” Lines taunting me in the mirror, I find myself thinking, “A little botox would clear that right up…” And it’s at the moment I have to take a moment. Really?! I am flabbergasted that this thought has even entered my mind! What a cheater I am to even think about botox! How unnatural!! How unhealthy!!! How much does it cost? I never thought I’d ever consider botox, but then again I never thought to consider I’d have “11” lines. (It’s probably all this contemplative thoughtful considering of “11” lines that produced the “11” lines in the first place.)
All I really know is that I miss my face. I miss the face I grew up with. I miss the face that I used to see in the mirror everyday. I miss the face I had 10 years ago. That was my face. This new face is changing and contorting. I’m not sure I know her. More importantly—I’m not sure I like her. This is what would drive me to visit the forbidden and scary Land of Botox—the promise of seeing the girl I knew again. To botox or not to botox? That is my question.
But now back to the more immediate problem—Nicole Kidman’s forehead. Has it moved at all in the last 5 years?