The Mom Makeover

Every year at this time, my favorite spa holds a contest for moms in recognition of Mother’s Day. Unfortunately, however, it’s not a contest that you can enter by just being a mom. Like you can’t just waddle in there and show them your c-section scar or point to the twitch in your left eye and whisper, “They did that.”

The reason you can’t is because this is actually a “Mom Makeover” contest where the winner gets a full day of spa treatments. (Retail value: $15,000-ish, I’m guessing.) Basically, the way the contest works is that someone you know takes it upon themselves to nominate you for looking like shit. And, if you’re lucky, the spa judges will all agree that you look like shit. And if you’re luckier still, they’ll then collectively decide that you’re actually the shittiest looking mom in town. And then guess what happens? BOOM, your ugly ass is sitting pretty in the pedicure chair. Aww, yeah.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I WANT TO WIN THIS CONTEST.

In fact, I want to win it so much that I’ve been making a real effort to slide headfirst into decrepitude. For example, I skipped going to the gym for about a month, then went back last week and Rambo’ed my way through a 30-minute kettlebell workout. Correction: A 30-minute Turkish kettlebell work out. Which I assume was invented in a scary Turkish prison by some buff American heroin smugglers in the 70’s. Or maybe that’s Thailand I’m thinking of? Obviously my drug smuggling knowledge isn’t as sharp as it used to be back in the days when I hung out with mechanics and Tilt-A-Whirl operators.

Anyway, if you’ve never done a kettlebell workout, imagine taking a 15 pound weight that has a handle and swinging it between your legs and over your head about two million times. Or at least one more time than your gym nemesis Perfect Molly does so you can yell, “In your FACE, Perfect Molly in your stupid Lululemon outfit! EAT THAT ACTION.”  (Note: Perfect Molly not to be confused with my other gym nemesi Granny Frypan and The Cracker. Those two hillbillies weren’t there that day because they were probably hog-tying something to eat later.)

Now, if you don’t know what happens to your body after a Turkish kettlebell workout, I don’t want to spoil the mystery. Let me just say two things: 1) ICU dosages of Motrin and 2) You’ll for sure be asked to climb into the bell-tower and get back to work. So I’ve got that “wow factor” going for me now, which is nice.

The other way I’ve been prepping to win the Mom Makeover contest is by sticking my iPhone directly on my cheek every time I make a phone call. This is an excellent way to make your complexion look like that of the miserable 16-year-old boy sitting in the dermatologist’s waiting room. Seriously, if I told you I’d been manning the chicken fryer at Popeye’s using only my face, you’d say, “I knew it!” But luckily my crop of adolescent pimples fits rather nicely on my premenopausal wrinkle farm.

Of course the best thing to do for a bad complexion is get a chemical peel at the spa, which I’ve done a few times. However, I always wonder how this type of thing was even invented. Did a German scientist drop a beaker full of acid one day and it splashed all over his face? Then two days later did his lab partner look at him and say, “My God, Guntar! Your skin ees now like une baby’s! Und where are your leetle crow’s feet? I don’t know because poof! They’re gone, mine moonchin! You are now totally spectahkular! Hello, Canyon Ranch? We haf da acid miracle cure for da laydees!” I don’t know. I got a D+ in high school Chemistry.

At any rate, I’m pretty sure that with my slovenly grooming skills and rapid aging and two grey eyebrow hairs, I have a really good chance of winning the spa’s Mom Makeover this year. In fact, I just had some professional photos taken to prove it.

See for yourself:

Wish me luck!