Hard to stop the march of time

Someone once told me I looked a little bit like Linda Ronstadt. Of course, the guy was 18 also, and wanting me to smooch on him in the front seat of a 68 Datsun, so I took the compliment with a box of salt. Still, its a nice fantasy - or was. Ironically, I suspect ol Linda isnt looking much hotter than I am these days, even with all her money and connections.

Sadly enough, time marches on for all of us: rich or poor, smart or dumb, thin or fat. I must admit I especially like that last one, because as one of my closest buddies casually remarked, Well all be a size two someday; I just may be in my coffin for several years beforehand. Ah yes, the Concrete Vault Diet, guaranteed to stop those frequent fridge attacks.

But while we are here, and while its summer, my fellow teacher-friends and I, including my own dear sibling, have decided to kick our makeover plan into high gear, and at least try to slow down the lethal effects of gravity and Little Debbies.

I made a list the other night of my entire combative regimen, starting at the apex of my problems. First of all, I bought RoShame For Women Without Access To Lots Of Hats. Im not sure if its stress, haywire hormones or too many frantic teasings, but Ive suddenly noticed the old mane aint what it used-ta-be. However, right after I plunked down $25, my fabulous hairdresser, Arnold, told me to Ditch that stuff, girlfriend. Itll make all your hair fall out if you quit using it.

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Next, after seeing a famous soap opera stars recent infomercial, I ordered her Adolescent Essence, which is, in essence, a vibrating beltsander used to apply magic crystals (aka rocks) to help rid your skin of those nasty dead cells, letting the dewy, rosy you shine through. I still look absolutely nothing like the women on the show, but I am right slick, having successfully polished off both eyebrows and one of my chins.

Sister and I also hurried over to Bihis for their special throw away money on one-get one free sale for Night White, a toothpaste guaranteed to reverse the yellowing stains common to 50-year-old teeth. Those choppers are also pretty shackly at this point, so I wonder if their color isnt a moot point.

On that same outing, we decided to join Curds, a new ladies-only fitness center with the philosophical view that enough cottage cheese and flailing about will cure whatever ails you. Their exercise system is set up in a large oval pattern with all us girls circling the room like buzzards at a buffet. (Oops, bad analogy.) Every 30 seconds a computerized voice breaks into the snappy background music to tell us to Change stations now! My problem is that it takes me at least 28 seconds just to get on or off the contraptions.

After a fruitful period of puffing and perspiring, Sister and I generally head to our favorite fake nail salon. Here, several very sweet little Vietnamese women slap on 10 acrylic claws and three coats of Southwest Sangria, before they start tsk-tsking over our rough heels. I know they must scrape off a minimum of three layers of dermis with a tool Im certain I saw on CSI recently - at a murder scene.

Finally, before limping back to the ranch, Sister and I stop off at The Slake and Bake Juice Bar and Tanning Salon. After a frosty Melanoma Mango Smoothie, we enter our private cubicles, strip and kneel, praying there are no hidden cameras, before flipping on the tanning beds. I keep smelling microwave popcorn in mine.

So, $211 later, can I tell any improvement, or even a slight difference in my appearance? Well, it has only been five days. Ask me in August, when we get back from our stay at Linda Ronstadts Beauty Boot Camp for Deteriorating Divas. I hear they do some serious liposuction with a shop-vac.

(Mindy Jeffers is a Martinez resident.)