Shocker: I totally chickened-out on the face reno

It looks like Botox and fillers aren't for me after all.

Well, well, well. The plot thickens.

After months of anticipating my big needle-fest with Dr. Brandt – Botox, Restylane, the whole nine yards – I wimped-out in the reception area of his New York office. He was super behind schedule (at least an hour and a half), and as I sat there, it gave me ample time to think about how much I didn’t want to be sitting there.

People kill to get an appointment with this guy; he’s the best of the best, The Baron of Botox. And there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he would’ve turned the clock back on my mug. He said he could make me look 15 years younger, and I completely believe him.

But as I cooled my heels in his waiting room, flipping through his amazing stash of art and fashion books, I couldn’t help but wonder: And then what? What happens six months from now? Do I just do it all over again?

Luckily, my answer was parked in the chair next to me in the form of a petite blonde clad in baggy cargos, a black tank and FitFlops. It turns out she was booked for the same time as me. They do that at Dr B’s, because he has multiple rooms that he just bounces between, syringe in hand. And she was such a seasoned pro that she’d brought provisions to settle in for the long haul.

When she asked the receptionist how long the wait would be – and then promptly whipped a banana out of her Prada crossbody – I knew I was a goner.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confided. “Does it always take this long to actually get in to see him?”

“Yes,” she said. “And then you have to be numbed, so that’s another half hour.”

At this point, she took off her aviators and I could see the wrinkles and crinkles around her eyes. I’m guessing she’s about 10 years older than I am, but dressed in a way that reads much younger. (The tank, the FitFlops.)

She was so friendly and warm, and really wanted me to make a trek to the deli across the street so I could shore up my energy like she was doing with her stash of fruit and bottled water.

Turns out I did make that trek, but it was out the door and back out into the great wide world, sans Botox, sans fillers. And immediately I felt better.

Calmer. More centered. In tune with the total Crunchista I secretly am.

Would I like to look younger? Absolutely. But I don’t think, for me at least, the answer lies at the end of a needle. I think I’d rather do some other stuff instead. Like take care of all the little tiny things that drive me nuts, the stuff I attack with concealer every day.

In other words, there are a few squiggly broken capillaries and brown spots I think Dr. B could zap for me with a laser. I could also get a light chemical peel down the road. And the Refissa he prescribed for me, as well as his whitening products, are excellent. So I want to keep using those.

For now though, I’m just saying no to the needle.

I can’t say that there was any one particular thing that made me change my mind. Rather, it was a perfect storm of s–t that sent me over the edge. The petite blonde in the tank top. The new issue of Star that I nabbed at the drugstore en route to Dr. B’s, the one with the “Botox Stars & Frozen Faces” story emblazoned on the cover.

The utterly terrifying recent episode of RHONY when Jill goes to Dr. Wexler for a “liquid facelift.” Oh my effing god, did you seeee that? I’m surprised I didn’t cancel my appointment on the spot.

Or – gasp – maybe I just want to figure out a way to gracefully accept the fact that I’m getting older. Now there’s a project.

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