Alison Berkley: Happily rotund and relaxed |

Alison Berkley: Happily rotund and relaxed

Money can’t buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy you beauty, especially in Aspen.

I thought I was past all that superficial kaka that I dealt with in So Cal. I thought my newfound confidence, high self-esteem and comfort level had something to do with maturity, being in my 30s and living in Colorado where people are healthy and down-to-earth and real tits outnumber fake ones.

Then my boyfriend dumped me, a sales girl thought I was pregnant, a dermatologist tried to bribe me into getting liposuction, my dad endorsed breast augmentation, and the doctor recommended that I get Botox, laser hair removal and three chemical peels.

Lucky for me, all of these products and services are available right here in our little town, at plenty of extra cost!

OK, so I gained a tiny bit of weight whilst in a relationship. That is like, totally natural! When your boyfriend tells you he loves you the way you are, the natural response is:

“Great. Pass the fries.”

That means you’re totally screwed post-dumpage when none of your sexy clothes fit you anymore. You try to maintain a healthy, positive attitude: sexiness comes from the inside! That’s why you should go shopping immediately to find something “flattering” that will make you feel better.

So I go to Goldie’s to try on some of those cool cargo thingies I saw in the window. I come out of the dressing room in a pair of pants I’m thinking make my butt look pretty damn good and the lady goes,

“Isn’t it fabulous how they’re making draw string pants and knit tops that you can still wear when you’re pregnant?”

And I’m like, “That’s great, except for one thing. I’m not pregnant.”

“Ohhhh my god. Oh … my … god,” she says. “I am SO sorry. I am so so so so sorry.”

OK, so whatever. Instead of breaking her twig body in two, I decide not to let her little mistake get to me. Just because my tummy might be a little bloated from all those beers I drank last night does not mean I look fat. I’ll just run 10 miles tomorrow instead of the usual six. Just to prove that her bad eyesight didn’t get me down, I bought that Da Nang mini skirt in size small, thankyouverymuch. Cost to hide Bud’s baby: $158.

Then I go to the dermatologist because I have this rash that turned out to be bug bites. How embarrassing is that? The doc told me to wash my sheets in really hot water, and even managed to say it with a straight face. So while I was waiting for her to write down the instructions for me to use Calamine lotion and bug spray on her little pad of paper, I noticed pamphlets on liposuction that made me think of Goldie Girl. Just hook me up to the hose and let’s get this thing over with.

Instead of saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need it,” the dermatologist wholeheartedly agreed that liposuction would indeed be a great idea. She offered me a discount if she could use my before and after photos. She pulled up my shirt and started pinching and poking and telling me I should do this area and that area, and my butt, too, if I wanted.

“But … I like it my butt,” I said.

She gave me a bunch of material about the procedure that explained how they fill you up like a balloon with all this anesthesia fluid which leaks out of you for like four days so you have to walk around wearing maxi pads and sitting on towels so you don’t ruin your furniture. I wondered: should I put a diaper on my head just so I can complete the look?

Cost of Budweiser baby abortion, i.e., liposuction (with 20 percent discount): $3,000.

I told my dad the whole story. “Oh, you don’t need liposuction, honey,” he said. “If you’re going to have anything done, you should get breasts implants. You know, men really are that stupid.”

A few days later I went to a general physician for an exam because I work with a bunch of older Jewish ladies who are constantly talking about surgery this and procedure that and “oh my gawd, everyone is drawping like flies.” Since hypochondriosis is contagious, I decided to go and have this sketch-looking mole removed.

“You can come in for a free consultation about that stuff,” the doc said when I jokingly asked about Botox, as if at the ripe age of 33 I should have to worry about those lines that make me look like I’m in my 30s.

So I go in later that evening and we talk about the wrinkles and the dark circles, and the dry skin and the occasional break outs. She holds my chin up under a light and goes,

“You know, you have a few hairs on your chin.”

Thanks for the update!

So she gives me this list of all the things I can do to fix my various imperfections, including $200 worth of skin care products (purchased); a series of three chemical peels (that only make your skin flake off like a leper for four days $350); Botox for around the eyes (“The only reason you should be scared of this is because you will love it so much,” she says. $250); Oh yeah, and laser hair removal for the single-hair beard (a series of four sessions: $750, though I’ll probably need five since that one blond hair is “so much harder to get.”)

So for around $10,000 bucks I can be thin, well dressed, totally hairless forever and have gorgeous skin and big tits. Or I can spend all that money being fat and happy having way too much fun in Aspen.

[The Princess also went to a circuit training class at Jean Robert’s gym today and had to write this lying down because her abs were so sore. Send your reassuring e-mails to]

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