Get a Neck Lift to Look Great During Video Chat Sessions? Yeah, I'll pass...

My kids are at an age when they'll talk to any (and every) body on iChat or Face Time or whatever the latest computer/smart phone video chat program happens to be.

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Me? I tried saying hi to my brother once when his kids "called" mine, but after catching a glimpse of myself in the little P.I.P. (picture-in-picture) box, I lowered my head, muttered a hurried "Got to go" and made a secret vow to never, EVER, video-chat again.

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As I recall, one of the best parts about talking on the phone -- remember that antiquated device we used to pray would ring with some cute boy at the other end? -- was that you could talk to that cute boy in your PJs with a clay masque on and he'd be none-the-wiser. Everyone was a winner.

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But, now with the advent of all this video chat craziness, you have to "worry" about looking like a troll while you chat with the boy, the girl, or whomever else. Thank goodness boys don't call me anymore.

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Turns out that once again when it comes to modern thingamabobs, I may just be in the minority with my Victorian opinions. Here's the proof: I just read an article about a plastic surgeon who has invented a procedure that <i>"aims to improve the way you look when video-chatting."</i> Much as I'd like to say I'm making this up, I'm not.

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If you don't like your double chin or wattle or anything else that bugs you as you chat, book an appointment with Robert Sigal, MD, in Northern Virginia and he'll hook you up.

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Here's a little gem from a recent press release from the good doctor who says he first got the idea for the surgery when his wife bought the new iPhone 4.

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<I>"Patients come in with their iPhones and show me how they look on [Apple’s video calling application] FaceTime. The angle at which the phone is held, with the caller looking downward into the camera, really captures any heaviness, fullness, and sagging of the face and neck. People say 'I never knew I looked like that! I need to do something!' I've started calling it the 'FaceTime Facelift' effect. And we've developed procedures to specifically address it."</i>

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You can watch the following video of Sigal to get more info, but tell me -- would you contemplate having this procedure? Am I completely off base here? Help me people!

<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zSgW3YxERKU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

It Happened to Me: I Tried Hypnosis So I Could Love My Husband

(originally posted on xojane.com) I married my ex husband three months after having met him. Soul mate? Unbridled passion? Rock the roof sex? No. Meh. And, certainly not.

I mean, sure, I liked the guy and wanted to spend more time with him but because government red tape seemed hell bent on preventing that from happening -- he's Canadian -- we just decided that getting married was the thing to do -- with that piece of paper we could "live and work in the same country and see how things went."

Here's how things went: NOT WELL. For 18 what-the-fuck-happened-to-my-youth? years.

Did I ever stop to consider everything (anything?) that "MARRYING SOMEONE" encompassed? Yeah, no. It didn't occur to me, for instance, that I would be stuck with him, ostensibly, for the rest of my life. Or that, I wasn't allowed to have sex with anyone else. Ever. Never, ever again.

Yeah, I should definitely have given the matter a lot more thought.

To sum up how quickly things soured, I'll point out that we were in marriage counseling within 4 months of saying "I Do" to some Justice of the Peace. And, when I recount that towards the end of our first session, when the therapist looked at him and said, "Marc, run, run for the hills…I've never met a couple less suited to each other in all my years," I'm not exaggerating. Not even a little.

Marc didn't run. And I didn't either. Instead, somehow maybe because we're masochists, maybe because we're both resolutely stubborn non-quitter types, we dug in, stayed put and stuck it out.

Don't get me wrong, ours was everything but a traditional union, we took separate vacations, maintained our monies in separate accounts, kept entirely disparate work hours but still, somehow we stayed "married."

Then, 6 years into it (!) we had kids. Twins. Because, you know, God has a sense of humor. And things miraculously improved and we lived happily ever after.

Kidding. Naturally it all got exponentially worse. The ante was upped. Now it was the babies and me vs. Him and, boy did it suck even more than before.

Still, for whatever sick, twisted reason, we were determined to stay together for the "sake of the children." No matter that as they became people they'd witness our constant bickering, or worse, painfully long silences. Or that they'd grow up thinking that all daddies slept in the guest room and every mommy was sullen and withdrawn around her spouse. We simply had to stick it out -- divorce was for losers.

Then one day as a friend recounted how hypnosis had finally gotten her to quit smoking when nothing else had ever worked, I had an epiphany -- the solution to all my marital woes had at long last made itself known; hypnosis! Yes, clearly, having my brain "tricked" into thinking a different way was the answer to all my problems. I'd get hypnotized to love Marc and all would be perfect with the our world. Sign me up!

If you've never tried to find a reputable hypnotist who's game to try and snap you back into loving your mate, lucky you. It is NOT a pleasant experience.

When they don't hang up on you for being weird ("Um you're the freaking hypnotist," I'd think to myself), they vet the bejesus out of you to ascertain whether or not your intentions are legit. What's not legit about wanting to love your husband for crike's sake?

After an exhaustive Yelp and Google inquest I was able to lock in on a highly regarded practitioner who was, in fact, willing to take on my case. I met her at her office -- a guesthouse of some Cape Cod home deep in the San Fernando Valley -- and she was just as your mind's eye would picture. A roly-poly hippy type, draped in loosely fitting bold prints with bangles and baubles dangling from every available body part.

With the usual getting-to-know-you pleasantries exchanged, we got down to business -- namely, getting me to fall hopelessly, madly in love with the father of my children. Or, to at least be able to tolerate the man.

The "Dr." advised me to set my sights low. Urged me to be pragmatic and accept that the brain is a tricky, complicated organ -- one that sometimes will not be cajoled into a different way of thinking -- no matter how hard we try.

Then she took out a pocket watch on a chain and told me to keep my eyes fixated on it as it swung -- pendulum style -- back and forth. Only, not really. Apparently, they only do that in hokey movies. Here, I just sat in an arm chair with my eyes closed as I listened to the dulcet tones of this Mama Cass clone instruct me to go to (and I kid you not) "my happy place" and free my mind of all clutter and stress.

I tried. Honest, I did. I urged my frontal lobe, my reptilian brain and even just my heart of hearts to please capitulate just this once. After all, not only did my life as I'd come to know it, but that of Marc's and, now, of a little boy and a little girl, hung in the balance. I just had to find a way to make all this work.

Surprise! I didn't "come to" with Cupid's bow firmly planted in my heart. I didn't feel all warm and fuzzy and lovey-dovey or even ever so slightly filled with a renewed sense of hope or resolve. All I felt, as I began the long drive back over the hill, was increasing despair and that I sure as hell could've come up with a more satisfying way to drop $350 (!)

Worse? I went through pretty much the exact scenario two more times. Sure, the locales were different and the hypnotists themselves didn't all jingle when they moved but the results remained unchanged -- I didn't love Marc and no amount of reduced peripheral awareness was going to be able to modify that.

"You can't make your heart feel something it won't," Bonnie Raitt once said/sang. Make fun of country songs all you want but that one nails it.

Not surprisingly, Marc's and my story ended as so many today do. Despite our valiant efforts, we did ultimately get divorced -- 4 years after I finally convinced him to move out.

Did we all crumble and fall? No, we stumbled a bit, sure, but I truly believe that it was best for us all. Our children know that we love them and that they did not cause our break up and, best of all, they get to see us lead our (separate) lives as happy, content people who don't bicker and mope and spew venom on a daily basis.

In fact, Marc just got re-married, I have a live-in boyfriend who makes me laugh and love and feel all the things I was convinced I'd become numb to and we're finally both happy with our lots in life.

Is there something to be said for not throwing in the towel and trying your hardest to make your marriage work? Sure. Within reason. But, in my experience, resolutely sticking to your principles for self-righteous, stubborn reasons may not always be the best plan of attack. Kind of like marrying someone after knowing them for three months …

THIS JUST IN: I'M A BONA FIDE SNOB

I came to a semi-alarming realization this week: I think I may very well be a snob. 

It's not that I don't deign to do certain things or deem certain situations, places, and people as beneath me. It more has to do with what I will and will not wear. Shallow? Absolutely. Non-negotiable? Pretty much. 

Let me back track a bit. One of my co-workers was writing a very clever story on the 11 Celebrity Fragrances Our Editors Are Embarrassed to Love. And, it got me to thinking. I don't care HOW much I love a J. Lo or a Jennifer Aniston or a (perish the thought) Britney Spears scent -- there is NO WAY I would ever, ever, wear it. "Embarrassed" is one thing. Categorically shunning something based on something so shallow is another. 

So, in an effort to try to rid myself of this despicable shortcoming, I tried to picture myself in CVS picking up the (no doubt tacky) box and heading on over to the register. But I couldn't even visualize such a thing. WHY? The cashier wouldn't care (after all, she sells enemas and personal lubricants and nose hair clippers all day). No one would have to "know" and I'd smell good, right? I guess. But, still, try as I might, this mental scenario was a no go. 

This saddens me. Am I so wrapped up in what people think that I'd deny myself an affordable, good-smelling scent just because I think it's cheesy? The answer is a resounding yes. 

How do I cure myself? (Short of some sort of intervention where my friends and family arrive armed with boxes of Kate Walsh and Halle Berry and (aaaaack!) Paris Hilton/Jessica Simpson perfume?) I know that not everyone feels this way -- after all, these starlets rake in mega bucks with these olfactory endeavors. So there has to be a way to just get over my lame self and spritz along with the hoi polloi. 

I've got this. Give me a month and you'll have a whole new (super-smelling) evolved blogger on your hands. 

Like Nora Ephron Before Me, I Feel Bad About My Neck

"One of my biggest regrets -- bigger even than not buying the apartment on East Seventy-fifth street [for a song], bigger even than my worst romantic catastrophe -- is that I didn't spend my youth staring lovingly at my neck. It never crossed my mind to be grateful for it. It never crossed my mind that I would be nostalgic for a part of my body that I took completely for granted."- Nora Ephron, "I Feel Bad About My Neck"

If I'd gotten the chance to talk to Ms. Ephron about my neck (before, we lost her to a relentlessly aggressive form of uterine cancer a couple years back) it would've required nothing more than a one-word editorial comment: DITTO. In fact, in this very column, I've made no bones about feeling bad about my own neck. How I really, dread the day when has become bona fide waddle.

It's so stupid really, it's just a neck after all. We all have them. They all age. Some faster than others. I have a friend who is nearly 10 years younger than I and her neck has always been ringed and kind of saggy. And, while that should make me feel better about my own, it doesn't. It just makes me feel bad about hers.

Here's the thing: I, like Nora and her famous friends, don't want to be relegated to turtlenecks and strategically tied scarves for the rest of my days. First of all, I live at the beach -- one of the ancillary benefits of which is getting to avoid having to wear such things. Second, I like tank tops, dammit! And, yes, now that I think about it (and think about it some more) I was fond of my old (young) neck.

I realize, of course, that this is an altogether vapid topic of conversation and that to maintain a modicum of dignity and self-respect, I should contain these CrazyTown musings to the confines of my own head, but apparently, in addition to an increasingly flaccid neck, I have a hefty case of diarrhea of the mouth. 

Since for many reasons (i.e. fear of dying on the operating table), a "neck lift" is most assuredly not in my cards, I decided to weigh my neck-firming options and, now, having read up on countless products and sifted through even more reviews, I've zeroed in on an apparently amazing item called Revive Formitif Neck Renewal Cream, $130, which was designed to give the neck and decolletage (aack, haven't even begun to freak out about THAT yet) a smooth, taut, firm appearance while protecting them from sun damage. And, it contains all sorts of special, bio-engineered ingredients and Nobel Prize-winning technologies, so fingers are majorly crossed that it's going to work.

Now, while it's not affordable and I'm going to have to do some creative financial maneuvering to swing it, I figure that, if it works, my inner peace (shallow though it will be) will have been well worth it. 

Then vs. Now: How Sun-Worshipping Has Evolved Into Sun Avoidance

A hit-home history of the wacked out ways we used to while away our sun-filled summer days -- and what we can do now to keep our skin as safe as can be I grew up in NYC with a mom whose life quite literally revolved around the sun. A woman who, at the first sign of viable tanning rays, would fling open the windows of our 10th-floor apartment and splay herself on the floor for as long as the angle would position the sun to hit her face.

On summer mornings we'd be awakened bright and early to exaltations of "sun's out, beach day" and rush to get pool/ocean side by 10am to ensure maximum "prime exposure" time.

My mom, a Mary Tyler Moore look-alike, clad always in a super teeny French bikini, was "brown as a berry" from Memorial Day through Labor Day thanks to a special, homemade, proprietary blend of baby oil and iodine and dedication, lots of it. It takes work to build a tan, people.

Then, when I was 16, mom received a pre-melanoma biopsy result on a mole she'd had removed and all of a sudden our sun-worshipping ways came to a screeching halt. Gone were the bottles of baby oil, spring breaks to sunny destinations (I had to learn to ski for cripe's sake!) and days of pursuing the golden glow. The fear of cancer had cast a literal pall on our family. And, to this day, she and my dad won't spend a minute outdoors without wearing powerful protection and a hat and sunglasses.

This story, or some version of it, is what basically happened -- and continues to happen -- to the world as we became aware of the damage that the sun's harmful rays can inflict if we don't take the necessary precautions to protect ourselves.

Of course, not everyone has been "scared pale," tanning booths continue to increase in popularity despite some seriously scary warnings, folks still "lie out" and the young persist in thinking they're invincible.

But, we're making some serious strides. Here's a look back at some of the seriously wacky things we used to do during sunny days and expert tips on what we can do now to ensure we're doing the best we possibly can to protect our skin.

Shunning the Sun Believe it or not, having tan skin used to be déclassé -- a clear indication that you were poor. After all, farm hands and manual laborers worked outside in the sun, the "ladies who lunched" were most certainly not out in the fields perpetrating a tan. Pale skin equaled affluence.

In fact, as far back as Ancient Greece, people sought pale skin -- so much so that in 200 B.C. folks favored a white lead powder mask to give their faces the pallor they wanted -- never mind that it was it deadly.

Similarly, during the Italian Renaissance and the British Elizabethan era, women wore lead paint and then ceruse, a lethal mixture of vinegar and white lead, on their faces.

Today, pale is starting (ish) to come back into vogue. Editorial directors have tried to disseminate the Julianne Moore "white is beautiful" message but then Sofia Vergara or the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue girls come along in all their brown sun bunny glory and effectively suck the wind out of the "pale is pretty" sails.

"While you can't completely reverse the freckles and sun damage you have, you can prevent new damage from happening," says Dr. Heidi Waldorf. Wearing a good sunscreen and applying it properly and often enough is a good plan of attack and, as Waldorf suggests, "cleansing with a body wash that contains free-radical fighting antioxidants before applying your sunscreen" is a good idea.

UGH: My Kids Missed Christmas Because I Was in Rehab

The first time I drank alcohol I got super got drunk and threw up.

Over a movie theater balcony.

Onto the heads of the unsuspecting Chevy Chase fans seated below.

That should've been a clear sign that booze and I were not a match made in heaven but, hey, I was only 14 and it would take another 30 years before I realized I had a capital p Problem. And it sure as hell wasn't with those zany Griswolds. (Although they are pretty freaking annoying.)

I grew up in New York City in the early 80s and partying is what we did. And we did it WELL. Hanging at Studio 54 doing lines with the Rolling Stones is normal 15 year-old behaviors, right? Being way more proficient at "Quarters" than you are at Algebra is something every 9th grader should aspire to, amiright?

Because "FUN" is what I wanted more than anything else, instead of going on to college like the rest of my prep school class, I went to work for Club Med. As I saw it, getting drunk and meeting new people was the whole point of going to college anyway, and, hell, Club Med would pay me to do that and let me live on lush Caribbean islands while I was it. See? My algebra may have been sorely lacking, but my logic was flawless.

The party was on. I hit the aptly named Paradise Island as an 18-year-old whose job, when she wasn't teaching tennis, was to fraternize with vacation goers --to help ensure that they had the trip of a lifetime. So, like a good little worker bee, fraternize I did. At the bar. In various bathroom stalls (this was the Bahamas in the late 80s after all, cocaine was copious, cheap and hella pure.) And elsewhere. (But that's fodder for a different confession.)

 It was all fun and games for nearly 10 years. I traveled the world, drinking, drugging and having "fun" all in the name of "work." Then it all came to a screeching halt when, one day, I met a guy -- a good old straight-laced Catholic boy from Quebec City (!) and married him three months later. [Note: do NOT attempt this course of action.] Au revoir Club Med, how's it going Los Angeles? And a house, and a "real" job and, hey, why not?, let's add some kids to the mix and, just to keep things interesting, let's make 'em twins.

I stopped drinking the second I peed positive on that stick and didn't look back for nearly ten years.

Party girl me had been replaced by SUPERMOMMY me. It was easy; I didn't want to be that drunken mom. I'd shudder at the mere notion of driving my babies around while under the influence.

Nope, I now got high on life; on seeing things anew through the eyes of my little ones, on living new experiences through them, on being PTA president and room mom and baking cutesy cupcakes all that other pink cloud, new mom bullshit you read about ad nauseum in women's mags. But, things were great. Until they weren't.

Quebec and I divorced because, really, you should get to know the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with, money got tight, and basically life just sort of happened so, somehow I started to drink again. Just some wine with dinner. Just a few cocktails at parties. "Normal" drinking like everyone does. Because, of course, I had my shit together, I was SUPERMOMMY, remember? Yeah. Only not so much.

 Keeping your shit together when all you really want to do is be drunk all day, every day, is a tall order. Keeping all your commitments tended to when your alcoholism is fighting to get the upper hand, is a full time job. Getting your real job done becomes a monumental pain in the ass. Then there's the rub that planning your drinking is an exhausting pastime; how many glasses of wine can I have and still be sober enough to drive home? Can we see "Despicable Me" at the theater that has a bar? Why don't liquor stores in California deliver? Dammit!

Then there were the pesky hangovers from hell. The only way I knew to quell them would be to start drinking again. So I did and that's when things got bad. Really, really bad. My kids, then 11, had never seen me "drunk". They'd seen me drink wine, they'd seen me and their friends' parents get loud and laugh-y and all that but they'd never seen me stumbling, out of control shitfaced.

That all changed last Thanksgiving when, saddled with the stress of having to host my family (I love them but, God I require copious amounts of vodka to deal), the pressure of having to get my house ship shape, and feeling that I had to out-Martha Stewart freaking Martha Stewart with the week-long food prep, I lost myself in a bottle of Kim Crawford. OR 20. OVER THE COURSE OF FOUR DAYS. When you're 5' 5" and weigh about 102 lbs. soaking wet, this is not a good thing.

With my entire family having taken up temporary residence at my house, I spent Wednesday before Turkey day "sick" in bed with an increasing stash of empty green glass bottles of sauvignon blanc hidden under my bathroom sink) and, lo and behold by the time that giant inflated Snoopy was winding his way down 34th street, I was in the E.R. with a doc telling me that I was malnourished, dehydrated and should strongly consider going to rehab. He also, thank GOD, told me NOT to stop drinking on my own, that I could have a seizure and die. I made him put that in writing so I could survive the family meal.

The next day, while I sat sipping fermented grapes in an effort to stave off both a horrific hangover and that theoretical life-endangering seizure, I watched my siblings and parents transform my living room into command central as they vetted myriad treatment centers. Ultimately, the onus of rehabbing my wayward ways and me fell on the capable shoulders of the nearby Betty Ford Center. I was willing to go, but frantic at the prospect of missing my kids' parent/teacher conferences, their holiday vacation and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. I mean, sure, getting my shit together was of paramount importance and, maybe I'd get lucky and end up with Lindsay Lohan as a roomie but at what price?

What kind of mother abandons her kids -- at freaking Christmas? One who needs help, that's what kind. As I kept telling myself again and again while undergoing the check in process (pretty pedestrian), the detox (pretty gnarly) and the soul-searching (overwhelmingly OUCH-Y), the "best gift I could give my kids for Christmas was a healthy, back-to-normal, me."

So that's what I set my sights on and committed to doing. I worked my ass off at that place; admitting that I had a disease, that I was "powerless over alcohol" but that I didn't have to drink again if I used the tools I was learning to deal with life's stresses (family gatherings, anyone?) instead of the bottle. Was my month in the desert chock-full o' sunshine and unicorn tears? Fuck no. But it was great in a different kind of way. I got my life back. I got my priorities back. I got a second chance. And guess what? Those terrific kids of mine didn't whine, or complain or guilt trip or any of the things I'd feared. They were supportive and loving because, hey, whaddaya know? I'd done an ok job raising empathetic humans. And, this year, with 387 days of sobriety (touch wood) under my belt, we can celebrate the holiday together and I'll even be able to remember it the next day. Talk about a Christmas bonus…

Why Looking Middle Aged Is the New Goal (Or So They Tell Me)

Find out why many professional women are opting not to over plump or perma-freeze their aging faces

"My patients aren’t in here because they’re trying to hold on to their husbands. If they’re trying to hang on to anything, it’s their jobs." So says Dr. Macrene Alexiades-Armenakas a highly sought after Manhattan-based dermatologist in The New York Times.

What the good doctor, who holds not one, but three degrees from Harvard, is alluding to is that, after a certain age, professional women can be dismissed as too old to do the jobs they've worked so hard (and long) to get. As one client put it, "I’m on an airplane to a different continent every other week. There’s no way they’d let me keep up this pace if I looked as exhausted as I am."

But, having the technology to be able to erase the ravages of a (longish) life lived is a double-edged sword. If these high-powered dames lift every sag and iron out every wrinkle they run the risk of looking too young (and perhaps vain/Real Housewife-y). So, as The Times says, "What these women seek is not so much the fountain of youth as its corollary, eternal early middle age. And so Dr. Alexiades-Armenakas strives not to iron out too much of life’s ravages."

One high falutin' vice chairman concurs, saying that she, and others like her, are looking to be "suspended at the 45 to 55 range."

As a result, dermatologists like Alexiades-Armenakas strive to leave some of those hard-earned crows feet and laugh lines in place, the concept being that "If you leave a few wrinkles, it looks more authentic."

While it's amazing that we live in a time when it's possible to (fake) dialing back the hands of time to a precise age range, is it equally amazing (read: sad) that these women feel compelled to do it? Would Warren Buffet or Richard Branson ever have such a notion enter the super-successful minds housed inside their decidedly wrinkly heads? High doubtful. How can we have come so far but still have such a long road to trudge?

WHY I'M FOLLOWING SHARON STONE'S ADVICE ON AGING

A year or so ago, I wrote a column called My Struggle to Age Gracefully: How Keeping Things in Perspective Helps to Keep Me Sane. Well, Sorta. Yeah, yeah, not the world's most succinct headline, but it spoke to how I was feeling at the time.

In the piece, I talked about how I'd once thought my "beauty" had peaked at age 26, and how it wasn't until many years later that I'd realized how idiotic I'd been to think such a thing.

In full indulgent-writer mode, I went on to explain how, at 35, I'd had an "a-ha" moment. I realized I was never going to look any better, or any younger, than I did at the present moment. "The grains of sand were sifting through the hourglass, and I could do absolutely nothing about it. I had to embrace the here and now -- and my looks."

And, before y'all jumped all over me about being too caught up in the superficial, I back-pedaled -- a little. "To read this, it sounds like I'm an incredibly vain, shallow woman who's all-consumed with her beauty quotient. The thing is, I'm really not. I'm more concerned with the lack of youth. Growing old kinda sucks. Plain and simple. As a woman, to the outside world, you become invisible. The glances from men on the street wane to a point where, when some creep whistles at you, you want to run over and thank him. It's when I find myself thinking along these lines that I have to stop and remember that it shouldn't matter how strangers perceive me. That what's important is being a good person on the inside -- being a great mom, thoughtful friend, and as good a person as I can."

Nice sentiment, huh? Thanks.

What made me remember that column today was something I read in some blog this morning. Seems that in January of 2008, Harper's Bazaar published a story on the then 49-year-old Sharon Stone and her "beauty secrets." In the article she talks about being tapped to be the face of Dior in her 40s, eschewing facials because she doesn't "like people to push and pick at my face," the fact that she only washes her hair twice a week, and that she has a weakness for dark chocolate. And, while that's all very well and good, it's not what struck a chord with me.

What she said that really hit home was the following: "Sometimes I literally have to sit down and look at myself and say, 'You are a lot older, and you look completely different.' You can't just keep doing the same hairdo or the same makeup and the same jewelry and the same look. You have to face the face that you have."

Isn't that interesting? It's an incredibly obvious concept of course, yet somehow still murky and hard to grasp. We all poke fun at those who are stuck in a time warp -- you know, the ones who have the same big hair, bright eye makeup, and Levi's 501s as they did in 1982. Yet, guess what? When we insist on seeing who we were in the mirror rather than who we've become, that's what happens.

What I'm gleaning from this latest a-ha moment is that it's not just my attitude about aging that needs to change, but also my perception of myself. To whit, it's time to take a cold hard look in the mirror and adapt my skin care regimens, makeup application, and hairstyling accordingly.

Oh, and it'd also be a good thing to stop judging others by their telltale scrunchies -- 'cause after all, they're struggling just like I am.

MY OPEN LETTER TO PHOTOSHOP-HAPPY EDITORS

Dear Photo Editors:

The jig is up. People are onto you and your maniacal ways. So, what do you say you step away from the Photoshop stylus so we can talk?

Attaboy.

For years, we avid consumers of media have feasted upon your offerings of the beautiful people. Countless photos of an ageless Madonna, a svelte Tyra Banks, a flawless J. Lo have seeped into our collective consciousness and done a major number on our self-esteem.

You've been chided in the past for brushing and tweaking images of genetically blessed, bronzed, Amazonian models to levels of ridiculous perfection -- but did that stop you? Ha.

You put stars' heads onto other people's bodies, whittle away at waistlines, re-position hands and legs to near contortionist proportions all the while hiding behind the claim that it's "art" and that people want to see "perfect images."

Guess what? We don't. And, we're not alone.

In fact, this problem has reached such epic proportions that in June, the American Medical Association asked advertisers to "discourage the altering of photographs in a manner that could promote unrealistic expectations of appropriate body image." Legislators in Europe and America are so annoyed that they're calling for doctored photos to be clearly identified as such. And now, according to the "New York Times," a couple of computer science geniuses at Dartmouth are, "proposing a software tool for measuring how much fashion and beauty photos have been altered, a 1-to-5 scale that distinguishes the infinitesimal from the fantastic."

Such a tool would help make inroads towards exposing altered photos for what they really are -- fantasy. And, if it was made accessible to the public, just think how much fun it would be to play around with. You could use it on photos of your favorite celebs and see just how much Photoshopping it took to get them to look so darn good.

Now I know what I want for Christmas.

You Keep the Kale, I'm Trying the New "Ice Cream Cleanse"

A California creamery claims that raw, saturated fat is a "miracle worker" for the human body -- it's also their ice cream's main ingredient

I am an ardent fan of the juice cleanse. I've tried many of the commercial ones (with Blue Print being my favorite) and always enjoy the results -- if not the first 12 hours.

The leaning out, the de-puffing, the clear(ing) complexion -- all aces in my book. And, I absolutely love the no-brainer convenience of reaching for a bottle and not having to plan a meal. Factor in that I genuinely like the way most of them taste (that nasty macadamia milk notwithstanding) and, if they weren't so gosh darn expensive I'd be happy to juice cleanse my way through life.

In fact, I've been contemplating placing order for a 5-day "Excavation Cleanse" -- spring break is just around the corner -- but this morning, something came across my Feedly feed that may have (permanently) altered that plan.

The headline alerted me to the fact that Kippy's, an organic, non-dairy ice cream shop in, where else?, Venice, Calif. is promoting the first-ever "Ice Cream Cleanse." Had it been April 1st, I probably wouldn't even have bothered to click through but, as it turns out, this is on the up and up.

The shop, which scoops Truly. Raw. Gourmet. ice creams and sorbets which are "100% Real Food" ("We use ingredients that are as close as possible to the way nature made them. We never add fillers, emulsifiers, or preservatives (like guar gum or xanthan gum) or anything that is not 100% Real Food."), offers a $240, 4-day cleanse that has you eating 5 pints of ice each day. For reals.

In a very convincing couple of paragraphs, Kippy's explains (and justifies) the cleanse, hammering home the point that "raw saturated fat helps us digest, repairs the gut, feeds the brain, boosts metabolism," and is pretty much the holy grail for all that ails you. Oh, in addition to all the internal benefits, as a result of living on ice cream for the better part of a week, you'll also lose weight and feel great so, what's not to like?

Call me a skeptic but, even after reading the rationale, I wasn't too sure I bought the concept, I mean, talk about sounding too good to be true. So, I did a little Googling and found a story on Fitmodo by a guy, Brent, who'd taken the cleanse for a spin.

Despite having determined that a pint of Kippy's Truly Raw Coconut contains 820 percent (!) of one's RDA for saturated fat, Brent was an eager participant and dug into his pints with gusto. Aside from a couple of urgent bathroom visits, intermittent lulls in energy and some wacky dreams, the four days passed without much drama and he ended up losing nearly 6 pounds. (Which, in typical post-cleanse fashion, had returned within a week or so.)

"[I] generally felt pretty good for most of it," he writes. "At no point did [I] ever feel truly hungry. Even cravings were very manageable, which was pretty shocking."

So, I was left to digest what I'd learned and ponder… A bottle of blended spinach, beets, ginger and apple or a pint of dark chocolate Himalayan Fire Salt ice cream? Seems like a no-brainer, right?

For most normal people, sure, but, truth be told, I don't even like ice cream all that much. However, in the name of science (?) and because it's my journalistic duty to get to the bottom of these types of critical beauty mysteries, I'd be willing to give an ice cream cleanse a shot.

How about you?

"Fit Beer" -- Just What Your Trainer Ordered (?)

A new Canadian brew is looking to hone in on the sports drink market

For years, Draft Magazine, a digest devoted entirely to the art of beer, has had a "Beer Runner" column that's written for the person who's "equally devoted to fine beer appreciation and an active, healthy lifestyle."

I was unaware of this because, if I'm being honest, beer's not my thang and even if it was, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't equate it with clean living.

But, according to something I heard (and then read) on NPR, I could be wrong about the latter. Evidently, beer, in all of its malt and hops glory, is now being touted as a "post workout recovery drink."

(Sometimes you come to work and write about the strangest things.)

Seems that somewhere up in the Great White North, a Canadian brewery has dreamed up a "low alcohol, protein-packed 'fit beer'." Good idea, eh?

Packed with electrolytes, antioxidants and nutrients, Lean Machine "recovery ale," which is being touted as a nutritious alternative to the typical high proof Canadian brews, is the brainchild of a team of scientists at Kelowna, B.C.'s Vampt brewery.

"We just thought that maybe we could do something that would support a drinker, make it still socially fun, and help them accomplish what needs to be accomplished after an aggressive workout," explains Vampt's founder, Ian Toews.

(And, I thought that's what putting vodka in your Gatorade was for. Kidding.)

Ludicrous as this all sounds, NPR talked to a sports nutritionist in Australia who agreed that, if it's formulated properly, a beer could replace some of the electrolytes, carbs and proteins we burn off while exercising. (Anyone envision this Aussie guy as a hottie with a big, blue can of Foster's in his hand?)

Before his brewery embarks on a full scale marketing push, Toews is having Lean Machine heavily tested throughout Canada because, as he says, "Canadians know what a good beer is."

The Looming Guac-pocalypse, Anna Wintour Sits Second Row(!) and More ...

All the "hey did you hear?" beauty and fashion news you need to know this morning... • Still think Global Warming is a figment of Al Gore's imagination? Chipotle says that climate change will most likely increase prices on several produce items -- including avocados -- and may force them to stop offering guacamole and some specialized salsas. The chain, which uses, 97,000 pounds of the California-grown fruit every single day and scientists say that rising temps in that state may reduce production by 40 percent in our lifetime. [ThinkProgress

• Sick of slouching over your computer? A French design company may be able to help. The Up T-Shirt "incorporates elastic fabric across the shoulders in such a way that good posture is rewarded by greater comfort" and, they're not half bad looking. Beats walking around the office with a book on your head. [The Week

• For those for whom a run of the mill cotton ball simply won't do, there's a new wave of "luxury cotton pads" popping up on the vanities of the, well, I suppose, ridiculously rich(?). Available from chi-chi brands like Clé de Peau, Chanel and Shiseido for about $20 a pack, the pure cotton pads are marketed as being ridiculously supple, soft and absorbent. And, one pad does the work of as many as 3 to 4 pedestrian cotton balls. #firstworldproblems [Byrdie

•Anna Wintour must've passed that Management: 101 class with flying colors. Vogue's editrix did the nearly unthinkable yesterday by swapping seats with an underling at Valentino's Paris couture show. Jaws were agape when they spotted Wintour in the second row (tantamount to Podunk in couture show geography) but, she was slumming for a good reason; the girl sitting in her front row/center seat is reporting on the collection for, you guessed it, Vogue, and needed a better look. [ The Daily Beast

• Speaking of PFW, makeup artist supreme, Pat McGrath pulled another awe-inspiring look out of her bag o' tricks yesterday at the Alexander McQueen show -- Owl Eyes. “It’s futurism mixed with nature,” McGrath explained. “We decided to do the owl world in a punk eye makeup way.” Spiny black feathers were cut and meticulously glued onto models brows and lashes in a process that took four hours. “When would I ever make it easy?” she deadpanned. [Style.com]

• And, now that we're speaking of feathers … Just when you think you couldn't get any more grossed out by what goes into some beauty products comes this little nugget: chicken feathers will soon be used to plump up your sagging face and help lend shine and bounce to hair. "The feather fiber grinds to a powdery talc making the keratin useful," says the USDA researcher who invented a machine that separates the fiber from the quill of the feather. Each chicken has roughly 10,000 feathers, we consume 8 billion of them each year. I'm no math genius but that leaves us with a lot of feathers lying around looking to be useful. In addition to helping out with beauty items, "The list of things that the [feather derived] keratin-rich material has been used to make is vast: dishes and furniture, clothing, circuit boards, wall insulation, filters, planting pots, shoe soles and hurricane-proof roofing." [Modern Farmer]

READ: 13 Gross Ingredients Hidden in Your Beauty Products

• In celebrity news today, Jessica Alba (she who recently gave Dr. Oz the facial of his life) has been tapped by Braun as the spokesperson for its electronic beauty devices because, "[As] a strong, passionate woman and advocate for others is the perfect ambassador to talk about the role beauty and our products play in helping women feel their best."

Also, after 5 years Katie Holmes and her pal Jeanne Yang have shuttered their cleverly titled Holmes & Yang fashion label. "We would like to express our thanks and appreciation to everyone who contributed to helping the line including our customers, contractors, vendors and the press for their support," the duo said in a statement.

And, finally, in case you didn't get enough of Matthew McConaughey this award season, the newly minted Oscar winner has announced that he's releasing a line of t-shirts emblazoned with his "Alright, Alright, Alright" catchphrase which, in case you're not a card-carrying McConaughfile, was also the first line he ever spoke on film (in "Dazed and Confused). The shirts will be part of his "Just Keep Livin'" collection that's sold exclusively at Dillards. No word as yet on when the tees will hit shelves.

Whiten My Teeth at the Mall? You're Joking, Right?

When I was 9, I auditioned for a role in my summer camp's production of "Winnie the Pooh." I couldn't wait for the Head Counselor to post the casting results on the mess hall wall. Would I be playing Christopher Robbin? (It was an all-girl camp.) Or maybe even, dare I hope, Pooh himself? 

What seemed like days later, the list was finally tacked up and while my name did appear, turned out I wasn't to play either of those lead characters. Instead I was cast as the sun. The freakingSUN. What? 

When I mustered the guts to ask why they'd thought I was suited to the part, they told me it was because my smile could light up a room -- just like the sun lights up the world. Gimme a break. 

I mean, sure it's true, I was blessed with nice teeth. They've always been super-white and I never needed braces (though I thought retainers were so cool that I wore a bent paper clip in my mouth throughout most of the fourth grade). But, because of them I was relegated to playing the sun? Clearly I've never gotten over it. 

Now umpteen years later I find myself longing to be cast in that part again -- minus the giant yellow orb costume. Why? After seeing pictures of myself over the past several months, I've realized that my once pearly whites are significantly less so. Don't know why. I don't drink red wine or coffee or even soda (I've been Diet Coke free for three years and two days -- but who's counting?). So, what gives? 

I asked my dentist and he said it was just normal "wear and tear" on my teeth, and would I like to have them whitened? Um. Sure. And, I'd also like a Malibu beach house, but as a single mother of two who gets zero child support I'm not about to indulge on such a thing. 

Hmm. Other options? Well, I could head to the mall and lie there with a blue light emanating from my mouth as Cinnabon-clutching teens snicker? I'd rather have dingy teeth, thanks. 

But if the mall's too unappealing and the pro whitening's too expensive, what's left? Do those drugstore whiteners really work? 

Yes. According to Dr. Michael Apa, a partner in the Rosenthal/Apa Group on Manhattan's Upper East Side where he works exclusively on aesthetic and restorative dentistry. He suggests that his patients use a whitening toothpaste daily and also recommends using Crest Weekly Clean Intensive Cleaning Paste, $14.99, saying that "[It] is a good product that has heavy silica ingredients to brush stains away." 

Well, OK then, I'm willing to try anything once. Will let you know how it goes -- and also if I get mistaken for the sun again anytime soon. 

Do you whiten your teeth? What do you use?

I'm a Snob

I came to a semi-alarming realization this week: I think I may very well be a snob. 

It's not that I don't deign to do certain things or deem certain situations, places, and people as beneath me. It more has to do with what I will and will not wear. Shallow? Absolutely. Non-negotiable? Pretty much. 

Let me back track a bit. One of my co-workers was writing a very clever story on the 11 Celebrity Fragrances Our Editors Are Embarrassed to Love. And, it got me to thinking. I don't care HOW much I love a J. Lo or a Jennifer Aniston or a (perish the thought) Britney Spears scent -- there is NO WAY I would ever, ever, wear it. "Embarrassed" is one thing. Categorically shunning something based on something so shallow is another. 

So, in an effort to try to rid myself of this despicable shortcoming, I tried to picture myself in CVS picking up the (no doubt tacky) box and heading on over to the register. But I couldn't even visualize such a thing. WHY? The cashier wouldn't care (after all, she sells enemas and personal lubricants and nose hair clippers all day). No one would have to "know" and I'd smell good, right? I guess. But, still, try as I might, this mental scenario was a no go. 

This saddens me. Am I so wrapped up in what people think that I'd deny myself an affordable, good-smelling scent just because I think it's cheesy? The answer is a resounding yes. 

How do I cure myself? (Short of some sort of intervention where my friends and family arrive armed with boxes of Kate Walsh and Halle Berry and (aaaaack!) Paris Hilton/Jessica Simpson perfume?) I know that not everyone feels this way -- after all, these starlets rake in mega bucks with these olfactory endeavors. So there has to be a way to just get over my lame self and spritz along with the hoi polloi. 

I've got this. Give me a month and you'll have a whole new (super-smelling) evolved blogger on your hands. 

Do You Want Great Skin Badly Enough to Hop On the Colonic Train?

Proponents of intestinal cleansing claim that clear, glowing skin is but one of the ancillary benefits

In our never-ending quest for perfect, dewy, youthful (insert your own adjective here) skin, a must-try treatment du jour pops up, if not literally every jour, with staggering regularity.

From new, groundbreaking technologies to rare ingredients farmed from high atop the Himalayas, skin care is a constantly evolving, bazillion dollar business.

These days, we're hearing a lot about forgetting topical remedies and procedures and confronting skin issues from the inside out -- and we're not talking vitamin supplements or making sure to crunch away on kale chips.

Lately, more and more women have been turning to colonics to help them achieve the ever-elusive clear skin they crave.

Just so we're all on the same page without getting too graphic (in case you're reading this over breakfast), colon cleansing is "a process employing a number of alternative medical therapies intended to remove feces and nonspecific toxins from the colon and intestinal tract."

Got it? Good. Then you're equipped to read this next quote from Tracy Piper, director of NYC's Piper Center for Internal Wellness.

"What happens in the colon is directly seen in the skin," she says. "So when I see a person with chronic acne, to me they are pooping through their skin. That may sound harsh, but it will give people a wake up call as to pay attention to what is going in inside will show on the outside. The skin is the organ that we see that tells us if we are internally fit, so pay attention as it can save you from longstanding issues later on."

"The results were astounding," a fan told Well&Good. "By removing all of the toxins from my system and replacing them with essential nutrients, my skin started to glow. It was obvious. People commented and questioned what I was using on my skin. I told them the only reason why my skin looked this way was because of the detox --because of the removal of all of the s**t (literally!) from my system."

Exciting stuff, right? Not so fast. While you can find any number of articles extolling the virtues of colonic therapies for clearing up your skin, as with any "controversial" topic, there are just as many that debunk the process, with some even claiming that it's a detrimental and risky proposition. So, as with any procedure, it's best to do your research and weigh your pros and cons before diving in. Or, flushing out.

Who's Down for a Leopard Print Bikini Wax?

A London salon is offering up some outrageous options in the "down there" department From Alex Brownsell, the proprietor of London's trendy "Bleach" salon -- and the stylist who brought us candy-colored dipped ends -- comes the latest craze in hair care … the "downstairs dye."

According to New York magazine, the inspiration for the avant-garde service was Betty Beauty, "an at-home coloring treatment for your bikini area (to cover grays)," which she and her team decided to take one-step further.

"It's a bit like Marmite," Brownsell told the magazine about the dye job's love it or leave it appeal. "We put it on the menu for a bit of fun but it's getting to be quite popular, especially because of the summer. I've had it done, a few of our stylists have had it done, loads of my friends have been in and had it done. We've got people coming in just for a wax that are seeing it, thinking about it, and then coming in the next time asking for it. Every one of my friends who has had it done has come in for a second go."

The heart-shape is very popular, as are the leopard print landing strip and tie-dye pattern. All this, thanks to the salon's "over-qualified waxer," Chelsea.

Brownsell explains; "First you pick the shape you want — a triangle, strip, heart — anything like that. Then Chelsea will paint the area in the shape, you don’t actually dye all of it. It is then bleached, left on for ten to fifteen minutes, then wiped off and a secondary color is applied. This is a stain and only takes two minutes. Then Chelsea takes that off and does the waxing procedure as normal. It's really quick."

And, soon, you may not have to wing on over to London to have the procedure done. Brownsell is planning to open a salon in New York by year's end. Although, she's not sure she'll have this specific service on the menu. "I think we’ll just do hair, unless there's a demand for the downstairs dye. I don't think I could do it though. I'd have to take Chelsea."

Would you be up for a "downstairs dye" or do you prefer to keep your bikini area more mainstream?

Do NOT Follow These Celebrity Beauty Tips

Surprise! Being an actress doesn't make you a beauty expert in the slightest

In our celebrity-obsessed culture, we put stars on pedestals and think they can do no wrong. GOOP-y Gwynneth becomes a self-professed expert on everything from diet and health to outrageously expensive tee-shirts, Snooki offers up weight loss tips and we're always reading about what makeup products celebs (no matter how D-list) keep in their handbags.

Guess what? Being famous for acting, singing or being drunk doesn't make you an expert on anything but acting, singing or, well, you get the drift.

That's what makes this compendium of actress-proffered beauty tips so amusing. Styleist compiled a bunch of celebrity beauty blunders that make for a good chuckle.

For instance, both the aforementioned GOOP and model Giselle Bundchen don't think there's anything wrong with spending unprotected time in the sun. About SPF, the model famously said, "I cannot put this poison on my skin. I do not use anything synthetic."

Snooki's little gem is a doozy. In her best-selling (how is that possible) book, "Confessions of a Guidette," the diminutive new mom revealed that she's used kitty litter as an exfoliant. Why she'd choose that over, say, salt or baking soda if she didn't have an actual exfoliant handy is mind-boggling.

Sandra Bullock, like many of us, buys into the "Preparation H" for reducing undereye swelling, but there's been zero scientific proof that this hemorrhoid cream really works for anything other than what it's intended for.

And, perhaps the biggest gaffe of them all comes to us courtesy of Taylor Swift who admits to the following; “I once used a Sharpie as eyeliner in an airplane bathroom because I didn’t have any with me.” Not too swift of an idea.

So, remember, celebrities might be pretty to look at on screen or stage or magazine cover but that does not make them bastions of what's good and true in the beauty (or any other) realm.

Are Vitamins and Supplements Bad For You?

A noted physician has waged war on the vitamin industry

"If you take large quantities of vitamin A, vitamin E, beta carotene [or] selenium, you increase your risk of cancer, risk of heart disease, and you could shorten your life," Dr. Paul Offit, a researcher at The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia says. And, he means business.

Offit, who's best known to us non-scientist types as the doctor who's been defending vaccines from naysayer activists like Jenny McCarthy (who believes there's a link between them and autism), has written a new book called, "Do You Believe in Magic? The Sense and Nonsense of Alternative Medicine" and he's determined to make people stand up and take notice of his findings.

At issue is how much we all seek a magic bullet to keep us healthy. This excerpt from an interview he gave The Guardian offers insight into his rationale as to why we don't need to take vitamins.

"You need vitamins to convert food into energy. The question is how best to get them. Most people who eat a reasonable diet will get everything they need in the food that they eat. But there are some people who have special diets – for example vegans or those who live in climates where it's never sunny – who would benefit from supplemental vitamins. But, for the most part, we get what we need in foods.

Other people think: “Because I'm not sure I'm getting all my vitamins, let me just take a multivitamin every day” – which is OK. Multivitamins contain at or about the recommended dose of vitamins for that day. But then there are some people who believe that more is better – that by taking large quantities of daily vitamins they will do even better, live even longer and decrease the risk of cancer or heart disease. But in fact, many studies have shown that the exact opposite is true – that if you choose to take these large quantities of excess vitamins, then you increase risk of cancer and heart disease and shorten your life."

Offit maintains that we all think that vitamins can't possibly be bad for us when they're supposed to be fundamentally healthy. We, according to the doctor, are wrong.

"Look at the root of the word: 'Vita' means life. I think people can't imagine you could ever get too much of a good thing. But the second thing is that this industry is very good at projecting the idea that this product lives under an untouchable halo. It’s a matter of perception. If you go into a General Nutrition Center, you can get a preparation, which contains 3,333% of the recommended daily allowance of Vitamin E. In fact, that's a typical Vitamin E preparation that's available. If you open up the bottle and take out one capsule, you'll find that it's smaller than an almond. And, in fact, almonds are a good source of Vitamin E. One almond has about 2% of the recommended daily allowance. But to get to 33 times the daily-recommended allowance, you would need to eat about 1,700 almonds – or about 17 pounds of almonds.

And when you do things like this, when you take 33 times the recommended daily allowance of Vitamin E, you are messing around with Mother Nature. I think if people saw that one capsule as 1,700 almonds, they would be hesitant to take it. But they don't see it that way."

Of course, as with any such hot button issue, this book -- and the press he's been doing to support it -- has many supporters and detractors. We are programmed to believe what we hear on the news, read in magazines and to follow our physicians' recommendations, so many of us simply do as we're told without questioning it. Then, we hear something utterly contrary to what we've bought as gospel and it sends us for a loop.

What do you think of Dr. Offit's premise? Do you take vitamins and supplements? Will you continue to do so without giving it any further thought or has this argument created some doubt?

Men vs. Women: Who Takes Longer to Get Ready in The Morning?

The results of a new poll may surprise you -- and provide you with some much-needed ammo It's a stereotype as old as "Father Knows Best;" Women take forever to get ready. Right? You've seen the scenario countless times …

[Interior hallway; early evening]

Jim: "Hi Mr. Smith, is Jill ready for the dance?"

Mr. Smith: "Why, no son, (chuckle, wink) she's still upstairs putting on her face, why don't we go into the den and stare awkwardly at each other until she manages to extricate herself from her vanity table."

[Cue: laugh track]

Yuk, yuk, YUCK.

The good thing about stereotypes -- the great thing actually -- is when they're proven to be nothing but, well, stereotypes, myopic, one-sided, errant views of something. And, for today's purposes, we'd like nothing more than to shatter the one that we tender-sweet young things take an inordinate amount of time getting "ready."

According to a joint study conducted by The Huffington Post and YouGov, designed to find out once and for all which sex takes longer prepping to leave the house, it turns out that both men and women primp for exactly the same amount of time. (That sound you hear is me gloating in my curlers.)

READ: New Study Says You'd Rather Look Cute for Your Girlfriends Than Your Guy

1,000 American adults were polled to see how long they preen before leaving for the day and "both 52 percent of men and 52 percent of women said it took them 10-30 minutes." The disparity only widened when it came to grooming for a night out which saw the numbers shift slightly. (58 percent of men and 42 percent of women take 10-30 minutes to prep, while 42 percent of women took more than half an hour -- but, hey, you try doing a decent smoky eye and flat ironing your hair in the time in takes to apply some nasty-smelling Axe.)

So, next time some (your?) dude gives you grief about having to wait for you to alight from your boudoir at long last, I'd like you to shoot him this link or, at the very least, point out that his nose hairs could use some trimming.

READ: 12 Hair and Makeup Looks Men Hate

Feeling Lonely? Step Away From The Mall

New research reveals that shopping is an isolating experience When you're sad and blue nothing makes you feel better than a little retail therapy, right? Not so fast. According to a new study called "Bidirectional Dynamics of Materialism and Loneliness: Not Just a Vicious Cycle" published in the Journal of Consumer Research, the opposite is true.

Despite the temporary rush of adrenaline you may experience from buying that new handbag, pair of spiky heels or little black dress, purchasing them (or whatever else floats your boat) essentially enhances the feelings you're trying to avoid.

Here's the deal from the study's author, Rik Pieters; "Valuing material possessions as a measure of success and as a medicine for happiness were associated with increases in loneliness over time, and loneliness in its turn was associated with increases in these subtypes of materialism. Jointly, this forms the vicious side of the materialism-loneliness cycle, which perpetuates once it is formed."

And, as New York Magazine explains, "In addition to taking time and money away from more fulfilling social activities, certain types of materialism can lead to a dangerous kind of self-judgment wherein we value ourselves based on our possessions rather than our relationships (and compare ourselves to others accordingly). That means you'll never truly be able to enjoy that pair of shoes you bought, because someone else will inevitably have nicer ones and make you feel just as pathetic as you did before you bought them (or maybe even worse, because now you're poorer)."

READ: 10 Grocery Shopping Secrets of Slim Women

Does all this mean that you shouldn't hit the shops when you're down in the dumps? Not necessarily -- as long as you realize that the only thing you get from shelling out big bucks for a Chanel bag or a few dollars for a pair PayLess pumps is a new bag and some shoes -- that surely won't serve as some magic tonic to cure all (or anything) that ails you.

So, the next time you're lost and alone and sinking like a stone (thanks Fun.), rather than reaching for your credit card, seek out a friend and take a walk, have a Frappucino or see a movie instead. Your feelings of loneliness -- as well as your bottom line -- will vastly improve.

READ: Quiz: Are You Depressed?