There comes a time in everyone's life when they realize that they are indeed old. Mine came earlier this year when I realized that being born in the 80's made me, and I quote, "an O.G." It was shortly followed up by an email from MySpace technical support letting me know that my archived blogs that I requested from 2004 (blogs that should never see the light of day should I ever decide to run for office) were now available for download.

(I had some serious angst about boys as well as season four of 24 back in the day.)

I needed to know: Could this magic bacteria that used to wipe out the pioneers on the Oregon Trail transform me, an ordinary girl, into a Kardashian? (Obviously the hot one- whichever one that is.)

So when I got invited to a Botox influencers' party, I wasn't insulted, but rather morbidly curious. Could this magic bacteria that used to wipe out the pioneers on the Oregon Trail transform me, an ordinary girl, into a Kardashian? (Obviously the hot one- whichever one that is.)

I attended with my friend Chrystal, a beauty blogger who had submitted me as a "blogger," leaving out the fact that I know little to nothing about beauty and my main subject matter is rehashing the story of when a low-level meth dealer stole my car two summers ago. (If you haven't read my manifesto, Grand Theft A$$hole, check it out.)

My first fear was that a Botox party would be similar to a Tupperware, Lularoe, or any of the other various MLM schemes disguised as a "party" and that a sad, middle-age woman would be stabbing me with needles as she cried about her husband's infidelity, telling me that if I just signed up under her as a marketer, we could both make six figures within the week. I just needed to invest $10,000 up front.

I was incredibly relieved when we arrived at a nondescript medical office in the rich part of town. The parking sign is completely real.

I knew these Botox people weren't playing. They're going to get you in, out, and beautified quicker than Starbucks.

I still have many questions about the laboring mothers sign. As we all know, the city of Salt Lake has an affinity for two things: regulating alcohol and enforcing parking. I'm not a doctor, but I believe birthing a child requires overnight parking.

We walked into what was by far the nicest doctor's office I have ever been in. (Obamacare currently sends me to a doctor that doubles as a free clinic for transients and a dentist that is literally in a Sears. Not even kidding.) Instead of plastic chairs chained to the floor and signs in Spanish announcing drug testing hours, the office was filled with expensive furniture, plush couches, earth tone walls, and snacks. And wine.

(The Obamacare clinic needs to step its game up.)

I bypass the brochures, pastries, and bottled water and head straight for the wine.

A nurse comes over and yells at me to not drink until I’ve signed the consent paperwork. Apparently a sip of cheap champagne would render me intoxicated and therefore unable to consent to having poison injected into my body.

Clearly this lady is unaware of what I survived during what I will refer to as "The Four Loko Era."

I signed my consent form, proudly holding it up to show her, and began drinking as the doctor, a good-looking guy in his 50's who looks like he should be flipping houses on a reality tv show, began his spiel.

Now I thoroughly expected that Chrystal and I would be two of the youngest people there. I mean, we aren't that old yet. However, most of the women were also in their mid-to-late 20's with a handful of older women who looked to be veterans at the Botox game.

But seriously. The room was filled with an abundance of what can only be described as leftover Park City rejects in overpriced jeans, trendy scarves, and floppy hats. If I didn't know better, I would have guessed that this was the support group for gold-diggers that didn’t land a rich dude at Sundance.

The other women are looking around nervously as if we're at AA or an STD support group. I'm smiling and moving onto my second glass of champagne.

The doctor launches into his spiel and then opens up the floor for questions. This definitely isn’t some of these ladies first rodeo.

Most of the questions are routine and he explains side effects, potential allergic reactions, and recovery time.

Floppy Hat Girl #1 asks what type of procedure is best to fix a "gummy smile."

As he describes various options, I pull out my phone to examine my teeth to see if I too have a gummy smile. I'm still not sure what it is, but if I do have one, I'm guessing that it's not something covered under Obamacare.

I see Floppy Hat Girl #2 pouring herself more champagne. The bottle is precariously low, so I go up to pour myself some. I underestimate the fuzziness and the cup runneth over onto my chest. (Not the first time such a statement had been made in regard to my chest.)

I hope no one is watching and just pretend to be examining my chest in case I have a question about breast enhancement surgery. No one questions me.

Then one of the older ladies goes straight for the balls- or the lady parts, I guess I should say.

"What about vaginal rejuvenation?" she asks, giggling, as she puts away her seventh glass of wine.

"Well vaginal rejuvenation is all the rage right now," he responds, launching into a far more vivid description about my lady parts than I ever wanted to know.

"It’s good for women who have gone through the change," he continues.

I poke Chrystal’s and ask what "change" he’s taking about. She shrugs. I shrug. Last time I heard a talk about “the change” was elementary school in Michigan, when the teacher separated m the boys and girls and our teacher handed us feminine hygiene products and a brochure and mumbled something about us asking our parents.

As he continues to talk about vaginal rejuvenation surgery, he begins to describe, in graphic detail, the results of childbirth on one's lady parts. I try not to vomit. This is the kind of stuff they should have told us in elementary school sex ed. I would have set out to become a nun without question.

When his presentation is over, we mingle. The doctors and nurses generally ignore me as I’m double-fisting my champagne and focus their attention on the ladies who asked about vaginal rejuvenation. I guess if you’ve got the money to spend on something nobody sees, then you’ve got some of that “corporate tax break spouse” money.

I’m bored. If we don’t start injecting poison into my body soon, I’m going to go look for some Tide pods.

Finally, the nurse hands me a menu and asks what procedure I'm interested in. I tell her that I'm unsure, so she suggests that I ask the doctor.

I head into the room, fully expecting him to circle all of my flaws with a Sharpie. Rather he says, "you're still young, I don't see anything you really need. Your cheekbones are high, your nose is good, you don't have a gummy smile-"

Thank goodness.

"-I can maybe do some Botox around your eyes to bring down the crow's feet," he suggests.

The price is cheap, so I agree.

I lay down and grit my teeth.

'Beauty takes pain,' I repeat to myself as I brace for whatever comes next.

He pokes a few times.

"So now do I wait for the numbing to set in?" I ask.

"No, that's it," he responds, taking off his gloves and discarding the needle into the biohazard box.

(His hands are way too smooth to flip houses on the weekends. He also looks like he could lead wealth management seminars too.)

I get up and look in the mirror. I do not look like a Kardashian. I don't look any different.

As if reading my mind, he informs me that it might take up to two weeks to see results. I scowl and head up front to pay.

While waiting for Chrystal, a woman approaches me and leans in close, whispering.

"Excuse me, can I ask you something?"

I look around suspiciously like she's going to ask if I know where she can score some drugs. (Pioneer Park, obviously.)

"Do you have cheek implants?"

I turn around and examine my posterior before replying. "No, but I've been doing lots of squats. And I run inclines at least once a week and-"

"No, I mean in your face," she responds, almost annoyed that I didn't know adhering fake bone to existing bone for the purpose of increasing facial volume was a thing.

I stare, dumbfounded as she rolls her eyes and walks away.

In the end, I maybe noticed a small difference around my eyes. I still don't look like a Kardashian, but at least I have some Real Housewives-level cheeks.

And I didn't even have to pay for them.

Zoe's Cultural Exploration Diary: Adventures in Botoxing

I needed to know: Could this magic bacteria that used to wipe out the pioneers on the Oregon Trail transform me, an ordinary girl, into a Kardashian? (Obviously the hot one- whichever one that is.)

A nurse comes over and yells at me to not drink until I’ve signed the consent paperwork. Apparently a sip of cheap champagne would render me intoxicated and therefore unable to consent to having poison injected into my body.