In 2012, I had the honour of joining my community choir and others from around the world to perform Handel’s Messiah at Lincoln Center in New York. We’d practiced until I was singing in my sleep. We were nervous, exhilarated, and at our wits end trying to figure out what the weather would be like. What kind of coats to bring? How many pairs of shoes and boots?
And then there were the other questions haunting me in the middle of the night. Just how good were these other choirs? Would I get to stand beside my friends, or would I be stuck beside someone who was so fantastic, she’d be glaring at me throughout the performance. I’m sure most of us felt anxious, but it was really starting to haunt me. What could I do to make myself feel better?
First, I bought a sparkly black jacket and some swishy chiffon harem pants, along with stylish flats so my feet wouldn’t get sore. Later, I came to regret those decisions. I never wore the flats again, the jacket was itchy, and the harem pants were…well. Harem pants. Like what Barbara Eden would wear if she was eighty. But the piece de resistance was the decision I made to get Botox. I’m not sure why I decided to go for it. I guess I thought the occasion called for a big move.
Before catching the plane, I stopped in at an office I’d looked up online. It didn’t take long for them to stick a few needles in my face, and I was on my way. I felt no different at all, and wondered what the fuss was about. The truth of the matter came about four days later, when suddenly, I felt like I’d been given Novocain and it just wouldn’t wear off. It was upsetting, and for a few days I didn’t say anything to my sisters. But the day before our performance, I came clean.
The first thing I did was burst into tears. ‘Something terrible has happened,’ I sobbed, and we all sat down on the bed. They each grabbed onto some part of me, like we were all going to pray, which happens occasionally.
“What’s wrong,” they asked, sending each other worried glances. I just kept crying and couldn’t get the words out, so they started to guess.
‘Does someone have cancer?’ (Ironically, three family members would face this in a few years, but not at this time.) I shook my head. “Are you having financial problems?” Head shake. “Marriage problems?” More shaking. ‘Are you being sued?’ My only reply was to cry harder. ‘Well, you’re going to have to tell us,” Susan said. I drew a big breath.
“I got Botox and I really hate how it feels.” They exchanged looks and Joni lifted her hand, then put it back in her lap. I think she was about to smack me.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked. ‘Botox? We thought you were dying.’
‘Well, I really hate it,’ I said defensively. ‘And I thought you should know.’
‘For God’s sake,’ they muttered, and left the room. No sympathy there. Fortunately, the effects wore off after a couple of months. And it didn’t do a damn thing, anyway.
The next night was our performance, and I enjoyed it so thoroughly that I celebrated later with four cosmopolitans and some champagne shared during a sing off with the choir from Singapore. On the walk home from the party where I was half carried by my sisters while crooning Christmas Carols, I stopped to beg Janice and Ken Pawlachuk not to tell my mom I’d been drinking. These were not my finer moments, but I can honestly say that a good time was had by all. And here’s the takeaway lesson. Don’t do anything crazy before an important event. Control your impulses and insecurities. And leave your face alone.