For years I was a drinker of wine. Every task came to an end at five, at which time I relaxed with a glass of Zin and let the television entertain me. There’s no denying that this was an early hour to suspend useful activity. My days were in the shape of wine glasses, full and round in the middle, and tapering to a focused circle at the top. By the time the evening was over I’d consumed a bottle.
This is a trait of mine: I form habits and become obsessed.
I recall how, when I smoked during my college years, I checked my purse again and again before going out, making sure my twenty little friends were in there. And then I’d be hit with panic after I closed and locked the door; and I’d grope around in my purse until I found them. Extreme alarm again at the base of the stairs; whew, there they were. And then dark anxiety in the car; and at that point when I located the pack I kept it in my grip for the rest of the evening. This was not healthy behavior.
And more recently I was every bit as fixated on the wine and the clock. When the time came, I poured. I would go to ridiculous, fanatical lengths to make sure I was home by five for my red libation. If plans intervened I’d have to mentally stoke by reminding myself that it was only a short postponement and that the wine would be waiting, a loyal and patient friend.
Until, as happened with cigarettes, I grew weary of being a slave to the grape and I put the habit in a mind drawer labeled “Things I Used to Do.” As with smoking, I turned away abruptly and painlessly. Good-bye old friend. I’m through with you.
That’s it? You’re done? David wanted to know. Yep, that’s it, I answered.
But hey, I reassure myself, I loved to smoke and I loved to drink and maybe someday, when I no longer care whether I live or die and my health has moved beyond reclamation—maybe then I’ll once again park my butt in a broad-cushioned chair in front of the TV and smoke and drink, devoting myself to my wasteful pleasures as the grinding world circles doggedly outside my door.
Though I’m not there yet. No, where I’m caught now is in that awkward period where I shock myself when I look in the mirror. Where’s pretty Jenny? Where did the wrinkles come from? What are those sags at the edges of my mouth? How many creams can I slather on to my throat before causing a rash?
A Texas woman doesn’t give in easily to the wicked infringements of age. A woman of boldness and strength has a duty to fight for that thirty-year-old that’s trapped inside.
Concerned, perhaps overly so, I study my face in search of the most offensive among all the wrinkles. And there they are—the deep downward trenches on my upper lip. Results of those few years of long ago smoking? Perhaps it’s caused by the many years of fluting. Most likely, though, they come from a lifetime of whistling. Yes, I’m a whistler. I have a low-pitched singing voice, passable when it comes to ballads and hymns in a minor key, but lousy for anything cheerful. A merry mood calls for a merry melody. Was the joyous pursing of my lips worth the furrows? I’m too distraught to decide.
Like a lost baby chick I run from friend to friend, pointing desperately at my lip—what do I do? How can I stop this? I look like Marge Simpson’s sisters! Everybody I ask says, “Collagen or botox, that’s all you can do.”
I make an appointment for a consultation at a dermatologist’s Medi-spa in Austin. Upon my arrival a woman greets me and invites me beyond the secret door. Her face is so taut from botox that I honestly can’t tell if she’s twenty or sixty. Am I looking at my future?
Happy to serve, she gives me two painful injections in my upper lip and tells me that the results may not be apparent for several days. This was unexpectedly expedient. I went in to discuss it and came out having received the treatment. So easy, and not nearly as expensive as I feared. I’m excited to see the results.
“Oh, and you might develop a lisp,” she tells me as I’m walking out the door. “There may be drooling.”
With my arms full of the magic lotions and additives she was kind enough to sell me, her words cause me to falter. But then, head high and shoulders back, I keep moving forward as I process what she’s just said. Drooling? Lisping? Hah. If that were true, half the people I know would be lispers or droolers.
In the end, no drooling. Also, no whistling. But what has been altered is the way I pronounce the letter P. My upper lip now lacks the suppleness required to press firmly against my lower lip so that my P’s come out like spitty percussive W’s.
And, oh dear. A publicity round for the US release of Why Stuff Matters is coming up and, in aid of that, I have a speaking engagement in Dallas next week. Until now I never gave thought to how many times P’s pop up in the everyday scope of words. How foolish will I sound? I guess I’ll find out.
On the upside, since quitting the wine I’ve lost fifteen pounds. Wine, it seems, is fattening. Who knew?
An excellent wine at an excellent price. Available at Costco. Most importantly, a high alcohol content.
See? Though the lines at my lips aren’t as apparent as reality in this photo, and perhaps you think I should have tended to the deep lines between my brows. Maybe those’ll be next.
The publicizing goes on and on and on. This is the last of it until a new book comes out.
