I’m about to turn 40, and it’s hard to keep up. There are all kinds of things I can do to better my appearance…grow hair where I want it but don’t have it, remove hair where I have it but don’t want it, plump up saggy places with fat, tighten up places that have too much fat, curl straight lashes, straighten curly locks, get darker skin and lighter hair.
I don’t have a plastic surgeon. I barely have a dermatologist, and that was for the 15 year old pencil lead in lodged in my shoulder. Long story.
Anyway, I generally assume that everyone is the same age I am, has their natural hair color and original equipment. It saves a lot of time that way. So, I’m continually taken-aback at who has had what tucked, lifted, lowered, implanted, removed, injected, and sculpted. I guess all of those plastic surgeons in my town aren’t skin grafting for burn victims after all.
I don’t know if I can’t bring myself to care, or I just can’t figure out where to start. I’ve done the basics–had braces, colored my hair and had it Keratin-treated. And sure, there are some things about my physical appearance that are considered standard deviation or two off the ideal. I have scrawny eyebrows, a bulb of a nose, skin the color of a night-crawler, and can’t fill out a bikini top. Maybe I’m just rationalizing, but translucent skin doesn’t get leathery, eyebrow waxing is time consuming and painful, I have a great sense of smell, and an over-abundant chest gets in the way of yoga. I spend most of my time trying to tamp down what I have under enough lycra anyway. I don’t need something hitting me in the face during headstand.
Maybe I’m too afraid to be off cycle…I’ll work up my nerve, spend a fortune, and enjoy a long recovery only to find out night-crawler is back in. Most likely, I’d hate to be that person that had something go terribly wrong. I don’t want my kids to know that I died from a cankle-ectomy, or have that face that can only register a constant state of surprise and have to adjust my vocabulary to match. Every response would have to be, “Really? You went to the post office? I just can’t imagine!”
For now I can eat cinnamon and enjoy a slight allergenic effect of puffy lips and wait until the lumpy, pasty Rubens ideal makes a comeback. I can at least enjoy getting to lumpy via Thin Mints.