What do I know…
Is heavy plastic surgery a status symbol or vanity gone awry?
I watch her, lips pursed outward and unnaturally firm like a deformed, stubby duckbill.
Are those artificial cheek bones? They seem to slice through her flesh with unnerving fierceness. Those triple-E breasts, so hard and high, I’m surprised she doesn’t topple over in stilettos at ten-AM on a Wednesday morning, waiting for her Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte at the Starbucks kiosk in the mall.
Is it the men? Is it men who make women feel like they have to do this to themselves?
As men age they become more “seasoned” and some would say, more attractive.
But women? No, it’s a fight to stay as young-looking as possible. As soon as that threshold becomes slightly unsteady, she’s scheduling a consultation with a plastic surgeon and pooling credit cards to pay for the procedures.
Who am I to judge, to even comment..? I’m thirty years old, just shy of replacing the zero with a one.
I’ve got some minor crows feet when I smile and find my slight forehead lines to be a nuisance. I love wearing makeup — it makes me feel good, fresh and beautiful.
Maybe her plastic surgery is my makeup?
I’ve got grays sprouting daily, it seems. A whole section of hair is almost fully gray now and I refuse to dye it.
I can’t say in five years that I won’t be tempted to color them flawless, but that always felt like a losing battle. One I literally was losing my hair over.
Grays don’t like to hold color, so what’s the point, really?
Will I be tempted to go under the elective knife when I’m fifty? Sixty? Forty, even..?
I don’t know.
I can say no now, but in twenty years, I’m not sure.
I think it helps that I’m fat. Although I’ve lost a good deal of weight since finding out I’m a Celiac and stripping gluten from my diet completely, I’m still fat and I’ll always be big.
I always have been.
I’m built like a “linebacker”, as my dad used to say. You line my family up in a row — my dad and brother and me — and there’s no doubt that we’re genetically linked. We’re broad, sturdy, and strong — non-practicing football players awaiting team choice.
My viewpoint on plastic surgery will probably always differ from a thin, beautiful woman.
Although I’m beautiful, too, I’ve always had that universal “flaw” most of humanity finds revolting.
How can you let yourself be so fat when you’re so pretty? What a waste.
If I were thin, built sleek and slender, maybe I’d be more open to preserving a slim figure. Maybe.
But I can’t get past the idea that the husbands or boyfriends or potential lovers with their plastic women somehow made them feel bad enough about themselves—about their aging faces and bodies—to drive them to alterations.
“Enhancements” might be too much of a stretch.
Is it security?
If I alter my body and try to create this formaldehyde-like encasing for my future self, will my husband be faithful?
Will he be less inclined to leave me when we’re in our sixties and some hot, young thing comes by looking for my sexy older man to be her Sugar Daddy?
This beautiful Plastic Woman before me, with a slew of diamonds hugging her fingers and draping her neck — I can’t help but feel like she was made to feel less than beautiful as aging became visible.
Like she was made to feel that her self-worth is only as valuable as her appearance. But somewhere down the line the goal of preserving youthfulness was removed from the equation and “plastic” replaced it.
Maybe it’s that the more artificial you look, the more people know you have money to burn, that you have a man who “lets you” opt for elective procedures any time a fine line breaks the surface.
But then again, maybe it’s a personal choice.
I don’t know. What could I know?
Maybe I’m all wrong and writing this was all some ridiculous misunderstanding.
What do I know…
I’m a fat, beautiful-faced thirty-year-old with a husband who at least claims to love every curve, every flaw on my broad and bulky body.
Maybe she started this way too.
What do I know.
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