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By Root 487 0

opt for this over a twenty-five-dollar visit to the lingerie department at Macy’s, but it’s certainly not me. The idea of having my ass removed to a landfill is just too much to bear. I’m certainly not against cosmetic augmentation, as it is in keeping with my theory that you can make yourself feel good by making yourself look great. I dye my hair; I glue eyelashes onto my lids. I even once had Botox injected into my forehead. For this I went to a fancy uptown New York dermatologist frequented by many of my good friends. They all look terrific, I thought; this might be a good step. In the waiting room, reading Town & Country magazine, I began to take quick glances at the assorted women there. I began to get scared. Most of the women had an upper lip so filled with collagen that they could have half kissed their own noses just by exhaling. Many foreheads were broad, expansive, smooth, immobile. I cocked an eyebrow just to feel my own scalp move in reassurance. A few women had a tell-tale puffiness around the eyes, an attempt at filling crow’s feet quite apparent. Was it possible these women didn’t know that they didn’t look younger? That what they had accomplished with these various procedures was turning themselves into two-bit caricatures of their mothers?

“Don’t make me look like those women in the waiting room” was the first thing I said to the doctor.

“Those women are junkies. They go from doctor to doctor. It’s their own fault they look that way,” he assured me.

Well, the Botox looked fine, and for a few weeks I felt a tiny bit younger, maybe forty-three, but I never went back.

Then one night I was watching a Bravo reality show, one of the Real Housewives iterations. There was an attractive woman, divorced with two children, working hard to support her family. She wasn’t just kicking back and relaxing on the proceeds of her alimony. By the third season, this character hooked up with a rich guy, and her looks totally went downhill. She obviously now had access to money for procedures, and also had a newfound fear of the rich guy preferring a younger version of herself ere too long. What was once a pretty face morphed into a monster of alarming proportions. Her lips puffed up, her forehead grew, and she must have had cheek implants—how else could you explain the sudden resemblance to Joan Rivers? Before she had money, she looked great. No, she didn’t look twenty, but she rocked her forties.

I intentionally lie about my age. I actually tell people I am older than I am.

“Fifty! Wow, you look great for fifty!” I may not be able to look like a girl in my thirties, but I can kick some fifties ass.

I’ve decided to forgo injections and fillers because I fully intend to become a crazy old lady who wears too much makeup, piles on all of her jewelry at once, and prances around the house in an enormous wig and a feather boa, like a redheaded Carol Channing. By the time I am wizened and wrinkled, my gay icon status will be improved upon by my greatest gift to my fans: another version of me to emulate. Young Laura Bennett, Project Runway Laura Bennett, Pregnant Laura Bennett, Crazy Old Lady Laura Bennett—the character lines will give young cross-dressers so much more range to play with. And they, better than most, know a thing or two about the beauty of shape shifters.

For the moment, I don’t fear aging at all. I will proudly walk into my fifties with my ass held high, thanks to my power panties.

Located next to a stinky dairy farm, we call this place Dairy Air (pronounced derriere).

DAIRY AIR

I HATE IT WHEN MY KIDS WANT TO HELP. I KNOW HELPING is how they learn, but I just don’t have the time or patience. Any task my kids assist with takes twice as long and yields four times the mess. I remember from my childhood a Duncan Hines commercial where the pretty apron-wearing mother prepares the cake mix with her three smiling children in a sparkling white kitchen, but in my house it never goes down that way. When Pierson insists on stirring the pancake batter, it ends up lumpy and all over the counter. If Truman wants