DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Face-lifts sound good, but for now I'm sticking to the basics

I have one word for you: plastics.
I will never forget the week my mother and two aunts went to Palm Springs in California. My mom and Aunt Louise departed from Cleveland, and my Aunt Dorothy flew there from Laguna Beach, California.
Lou had no children, but Dore and Betty had three between them. None of their three girls, however, had any clue why their mothers had chosen Palm Springs for their vacation.
A week later, the truth came out. Face-lifts. Face-lifts! Can you imagine? They were middle-aged, middle class women, not movie stars!
My sister reported that my mother "just didn't look like herself anymore." It looked fine, but just not like her, she said.
Besides, we were aghast because our mother hadn't told us, for one thing. And for another, WE would never get plastic surgery.
Well, time has passed. And, after I smooth on age spot diffuser and Oil of Olay each evening, after I try to vibrate my teeth to whiteness with my Sonicare, I move on to another of the nightly rituals I've adopted.
I stand close enough to the bathroom mirror to see without my glasses and lay the flat of my palms against my cheeks. Then I gently slide them toward the back of my head, taking my sagging jowls with them. Smoother. Younger. More beautiful. Much better, I think. A little nip, a little tuck.
Of course, unless I plan on keeping my hands there, the improvement is short-lived. My jowls jiggle back to their rightful places, and I trundle off to bed, assuming the only other position where my skin doesn't sag -- prone.
Relating with family
Last night, I celebrated my father's 82nd birthday at my sister's house and, for some reason, face-lifts came up.
"I'd do this," I said, repeating my ritual jowl pull-back.
"Me, too," my sister agreed.
"And I'd get my top lip filled with collagen."
"Angelina Jolie style. She says hers are real. Ha!"
"What would you do, Jim?" my husband wisecracked to my brother-in-law.
"Why mess with perfection?" he replied.
Now there's the arrogance I lost with the ability to fearlessly try on bathing suits under fluorescent lighting. I think I was 24 that year. Not that I'm really thinking of getting a face-lift. I'm too big a baby for that. (Besides, if I was going to risk plastic surgery, I'd have my chest inflated.)
"Did you know that Joan Rivers is in her 70s!?" my sister marveled.
"Did you know Michael Jackson is in his 40s?"
My sister said, "I'm waiting until it's a little laser cut that you can hardly see."
"I thought it already was."
"Oh no." She gestured along her hairline and cheek, like a convict running his finger beneath his neck "slit-your-throat" style.
"Ooooh. No thanks," I said At least, not yet.
Simple plans
Six million, six hundred and sixty six thousand Americans disagreed with me last year alone. And those were just men and women opting for cosmetic surgery, not surgery for limb repairs, damaged jaws, foreheads and what not. Cosmetic!
As for me, I'm flirting with using Breathe Right strips attached to the sides of my cheeks. At a $1 each, I can probably afford to look less jowly a couple days a week. And I've downloaded 35 exercises guaranteed to make my face look lifted after just six months. I plan to do them after dark while I walk the dog.
And if by chance, I someday slip off to Palm Springs and return looking good but not quite myself, well, hey, keep it to yourself, would you?
murphy@vindy.com