I meet my magazine nightmares in my doctor’s office too. Waiting to find out if my pap smear this year is still cancer free, stacks of magazines purr a different set of worries. Am I using the right face wash? How can I match the looks on these differently rated celebrities? Do I have all the right accessories to match my personality? What does my handbag reveal about me? What restaurant should I been seen dining at? Will my boyfriend still find me attractive if I make more money than he does? Across from me, a middle-aged man is vibrating in the message chair as he disappears in years, behind the pages of Spots Illustrated. Next to me, a young woman catches up to speed on the life and times of Angelina and Brad. Above both our heads, rest matted posters illuminating the heaven on earth feel of microdermabrasion and collagen. After all, this is a doctor’s office in Santa Monica, where if your check up turned out well, you might as well consider more pertinent issues on your way out.

I have been coming to the same doctor’s office since I moved here from New York five years ago. My insurance goes over well. I love my doctor because I feel at ease with her, no matter the issue. We talk about blood pressure, reoccurring headaches, a vaccine against cervical cancer (one I am told I should consider soon, as insurance companies won’t pay for after I turn 27). Perhaps someday, the fears of aging will crawl ride down beside me, and I too may seek soothing in the form of laser surgery. Never once have I been told my skin seems too pale, too red, too real. The nurse likes to give me samples of their own skin care line. They come wrapped in bright pink tissue, cascading out of a shinny black bag. A going away present, a thank you for coming in and a reminder of what is really important. The inside credits of ELLE may one day belong to this skin regime, and together they will conquer our worst fear: not being as beautiful as a Photoshop illusion.