You want to know how tough I am? Do you?
A couple times per year, I allow someone to stab me in the face with a poison-filled needle. BAM! That’s my level of awesome. And then at the end, for the next 20 minutes I look like this guy:
Pretty hawt. But after the swelling recedes and smooths out, my fivehead no longer resembles an accordion.
It looks like this:
But only when I’m angry.
Why do I put myself through such extremes for beauty? The answer is simple: It’s my thing. Everybody has a thing; a thing that makes them feel a little less-than-fantastic about their otherwise stellar looks. In my case, it’s my wrinkly forehead. And my tube-socks-with-rocks boobs and my saggy fanny, but that’s neither here nor there. (They’re more like here AND there, and there, and a little over there — especially in a strong wind). But I’ve always had worry lines. I think I was the only kid in preschool with a permanently furrowed brow. Amazingly, silky soft skin? Yes. But skin that wrinkles like linen, nonetheless.
So what drives a woman to such drastic measures?
The Buddha would say desire. And the Buddha, though he was a fat and happy man, would be right. As a man in India some 1500-plus years ago, being fat and happy were cool things. Probably desirable as well. And while his boobs may also have had a similar appearance to tube-socks-with-rocks, I don’t think he was too chuff about it.
Being a woman at this time, in this century, in this country, I have certain hangups. I don’t have an issue with any of them. My take on plastic surgery is, if you have some feature that truly bugs you and you understand and embrace why that thing bugs you, but you also have the means to change it? Or can scrape up the means to change it (without making anybody starve), why not?
Does it make me vain? Oh, sure — probably. Do I care? Not so much. The fact is, my constant state of worry and lifelong frowning (all unbeknownst to me, it’s just what my face does when I think) has left me looking craggy. I have frown lines. And you know what? I don’t like looking angry all the time, especially when I’m not.
So here’s a question for you all: Would you, could you, in a house with a mouse or with a fox in a box … if you had the means, would you turn to plastic surgery or other cosmetic measures to change your appearance, or do you think it’s a load of stupid?
I’m interested in all answers and really won’t be off-put, no matter what they are.