Breakfast and Botox?
By Judith Newman
But such concerns are far from the minds of the women gathered here. Most are younger-generation socialites in Miami, on the boards of museums and private-school PTAs. They take care of themselves. Boy, do they take care of themselves. I've never felt older and fatter than during my two days in South Beach. But while these women's average weight is 100 pounds, of which 30 pounds is implants, consider this: How obsessed would you be if you lived in a climate that pretty much mandated that you be half-naked most of the year?
"This is so fun and social," says Joi Fiske, who had just the tiniest drops of blood emerging from where the needle pierced her already-smooth forehead. "And you have, like, this solidarity with your friends," adds Kristen Munroe, who passed on the Botox today — she's pregnant — but was getting her toes painted a pearly pink.
I haven't seen a group of women this giddy since I attended a Tupperware-like party hosted by a company that sold vibrators. Indeed, there is something transgressive — dirty, even — about getting shot up with a muscle-paralyzing poison in a hotel room. I should know. Although I'm not partaking today, on a few occasions I've had Botox and Restylane injected in hotel suites. And while everything was always aboveboard, there existed that delicious whiff of impropriety, as if at any minute wah-wah music from a porn movie could start up in the background, and the polite man who is literally saving your skin could suddenly be overcome, tearing off his crisp white coat.
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