Necessary Evil

I regard plastic surgery with a dubious eye. I don't condemn those who embrace (and benefit from) it. Yet, there is something ridiculous in me that wants to age naturally. I seem to labor under the notion that my natural aging beauty is lovely and that by age 60, I will still look like a fabulous supermodel. I am ridiculous. Come on, I know it.

Inexplicably, I don't want a knife or a needle near my face. This mug is the one I was born with. It ain't great or beautiful or special but hell, I sorta like it. God knows, the lines show but I recognize every square inch of what I had when I was a child. I still see it through the decades that serve to obscure it. I see the same dimples when I laugh and the scars earned during fraternal scrapes as a child. Erasing them is equal to erasing my character. Oddly, I see that.

On the other hand (and under the category of an awkward segue), I really hate my boobs. It took a long time for the bastards to show up and at age 16, they came out in spades. I sport a horrendous natural twinset--38Ds to be specific. I am not bragging; I frankly deplore the girls. I have nicknamed them "Shock & Awe"...and not in a good way. I have to wear two sports bras when I exercise or run. My back hurts. It is really uncomfortable to sleep on your stomach. And if I buy clothing to fit me, it will fit everywhere except my tits. I will never own a Thomas Pink custom made shirt. That alone breaks my heart.

I've labored under the fantasy of having these impediments reduced. The notion of lovely lilting B cups, pointing upwards is a fantastical thought. To me, that image alone represnts money very well spent. I've bored my friends with these fantasies for years; they listen, they counsel, they return to Go. I haven't acted yet.

I was in Baltimore on business today and had the chance to ride back into New Jersey with Norma. We started talking about this and when she pressed me why I hadn't done something that was clearly symbolic for me, I was lost for an answer. The truth is, I have socked away every spare penny I have earned for the past 20 years into copious mutual funds and bonds and other investments for a rainy day that I may never see and for descendents that don't exist. Why am I working and saving and never spending a cent? I don't know. I really don't know. Habit?

She then said something that struck me. She said, with a clear and resonant voice: "The only regret that I have about plastic surgery? That I didn't do it sooner." She repeated this mantra two more times. I got it. I believed.

I need to get into shape. I need to focus on getting healthy. And as Norma suggests, if I'm willing to ante up a handful of G-notes to finally realize perky tits, it's worth my while to get my ass in shape to protect my new possible investment. I like the philosophy. It may--at last--be the right time.

I'll keep you posted.