A dear friend and I were commiserating tonight about our flaws, mental and otherwise – far too numerous to count – and we came to the healthy conclusion that plastic surgery could justifiably be the answer to all our ills. Think abou tit… I mean about it. Whatever gets us feeling all hostile and resentful in this life, it all comes down to body image.
Who could argue with that? Even if you want to argue, save it. Plastic is fun. Plastic surgery is even funner. What can you think of that hasn’t been fantastically improved by plastic? Seriously. Trash cans. Tupperware. Remember when sunglasses were made of metal? Of course you don’t. Who wants metal sunglasses? No one. That’s why they’ve always been plastic, and infinitely awesome.
Imagine taking all your problems and resculpting them, refashioning them into a plastic form that is resilient and resistant to stains and dents. Imagine being free of the bump in your nose, the cottage cheese on your thighs, the flab in your calves, the loaves hanging over your waistband. Life is already beginning to look up.
Exercise can only give us so much satisfaction. Dieting is just cruelty to chocolate. We all can agree, it deserves to be eaten. Only plastic holds the key to sublime happiness. God knows that too. That’s why he created man in his perfect image, then Eve went and screwed it all up for the rest of us and he cursed her with head lice and cellulite. Women have been pursuing the antidote ever since. I mean, honestly. An apple? Who, but a man, could even be remotely tempted by an apple?
So in an effort to reclaim our perfection, man fashioned plastic unto himself. Interesting that the man who first performed rhinoplasty surgery just so happened to have the initials J.C. Coincidence? I think not. Joseph Constantine Carpue was a military surgeon, who in his early years was being primed for the priesthood. Curious, isn’t it? A google search went on to inform me that he had an erratic and eccentric disposition. That equals hostile in my book, which is why he embraced change on a grand scale. As a fancy plastic surgeon, J.C. could put noses back on people who lost them and spread joyful blessings throughout the land.
I never used to believe in plastic surgery. I thought it a shallow and vain pursuit to halt the ravages of time. Then I looked into the mirror and decided I was stupid. Often times our worldview needs a quick express facial, but more often than not, it needs radical reconstruction.
I’ve decided that to be truly happy, what I need are tricep implants. I’ve grown weary of watching my arm wave goodbye long after my hand has stopped. I don’t even need the implants on both sides. Just on the waving arm. That would be more than sufficient for a proper goodbye that doesn’t leave innocent bystanders stunned with lingering horror and nausea.
I’m ready to embrace change. My father told me long ago that I should never give a camera my side profile. I would have done well to have heeded his words of wisdom. If only I hadn’t told him to shut up that day. If only I had listened to what he was trying to really tell me. Get surgery. Years of needless peer torment and self-deprecation would have been averted. My boss at the clothing store would never have told me my nose looked like the logo on her pack of Camel cigarettes. My softball coach wouldn’t have given me a jersey with double zeroes on the back which was supposed to stand for “0live 0il”… as in Popeye’s girlfriend… which is evidently who I looked like when I played centerfield.
If I had looked into lyposuction, perhaps our priest friend would never have asked me when the baby was due. If I had gotten that facelift, maybe I wouldn’t have mistaken myself for my brother that day I caught my reflection in a Friendly’s restaurant window. If I had pursued the botox injections for this stubborn and cavernous crease in my brow, my husband and children might not ask me what’s wrong all the time and why I am making “that face.” No. Instead I’d look serene and peaceful, happy and joyful… which is exactly what I would be if I were plastically perfect in every way.
Don’t my children deserve for me to at least look happy? Doesn’t my superior-skinned husband deserve a hot wife with big fake boobs? I’ve come to realize that I will never look happy no matter how many St. John’s Wort I take. It’s impossible. The fact is I simply concentrate too hard when I type, so I accept that smooth frontal tuberosity can never happen for me. I am a realist. My boobs will not elevate and expand, no matter how many oranges I squeeze… and believe you me, I shop at Produce Junction. My triceps are morbidly atrophied and I could never will myself to choke down enough poultry and potatoes to build them up to any kind of respectable mass.
My first name is derived from the Greek goddess of wine, Dionysus. Such an elegant name. I envision her pouring wine from a large terra cotta jug, her gorgeous Grecian nose reflecting moonbeams. Her triceps flexing in a fantastic gesture of grace and strength. I can see the procerus muscle betwixt her eyes in all its smooth and unfurrowed radiance.
And then I envision myself anew… this fabulous, perfectly plastic, Greco-Gaelic goddess with sculpted tricep implants and a chest that could easily accommodate a childrens moon bounce party… and I wonder if maybe J.C. could fix the rest of me while he’s at it.
