Even though I’m not dating ever, ever, ever again, or at the moment even, I am reluctant to let go of this blog. So I was thinking maybe I could take some time and discuss some superficial things that are loosely related to dating.

Today I will discuss a section of my face that is really starting to piss me off.

I have bags under my eyes. They’ve been around a while, long enough for me to realize that the left and right bag each have their own unique personality and set of habits. They are especially visible under the fluorescent lights at work.  I’ve kind been cringing a little bit looking at these bags. I have taken down all the mirrors at work but there is still one big mirror over the sink in the back exam room so that when I wash my hands, I  can’t help but scrutinize the current puff factor (today it was a 3 out of 5). The bags go up and down in size, and lately they do this thing where the papery skin kinda folds over onto itself. Sick.

I’ve been so preoccupied with the bags, that I didn’t notice that my upper lids were starting to hood. I didn’t notice until the day I went in for lash extensions and Gina had to tape up my lids to get to my lash line. Kind of funny.

I’m too cheap to get my lash extensions right now, ok poor, and also now that I am a ballerina, I have started wearing lash strips. My crinkly lids make it difficult but I’m a trooper. Overall I think the lash strip pros outweigh the cons, but since I am allergic to everything, the skin around my eyes is a little angry about the lash glue. Angry enough to go all reptile on me.

So my eyes are just weird right now. I don’t know if this is the new normal or just the side effect of winter, but there’s a lot of useless skin hitch-hiking around my eyes. I have told my face that laugh lines are ok, but that I can not approve of the bags or the hooding. Be gone! My face agrees but has said right now that there is nothing it can do about this.

When I can’t sleep I look at before and afters of eye jobs – blepharoplasty it’s called. I look at some good ones and then I look at Kenny Rogers. When I’m feeling worried and angsty I make myself  peruse botched plastic surgeries. I think to myself that if Daryl Hannah and Meg Ryan and Victoria Principal can end up looking like their wax museum counterparts only stiffer, who am I to hope for a natural-looking “my you look rested” result?

I seriously want to know how the superstars with gobs of cash manage to get such awful plastic surgery results. Priscilla Presley how did it happen? Tell me, I’ve got to know!

None of it matters because I can’t afford the surgery anyway. I’m just saying that it is getting to the point where I can’t see myself in the mirror without contemplating the eye surgery. Which means I really owe it to myself to just do it and move on.

It’s all a moot point because I can’t justify spending the money. Not now anyway.

Before I close I want to say that something else  is weird about my eyes. They used to be brown and now they are a washed out green-blue-hazel. Also there are yellow blobs on my sclera. And my eyes are dry a lot of the time. They just don’t look or feel the way they used to. It’s all very odd and hard to swallow.

I’m really not so vain. Okay, I’m totally vain. But I’m also quite realistic and happy with what I’ve got most of the time. So it feels weird to be seriously lightly obsessing over my eyebags, hooded lids and pingueculae.images-2

Nevermind. Tomorrow,  I discuss my jowls.

Nighty-night