The Body Fixer-Upper
In a valiant effort to ward off untimely death by preventable skin cancer, on Wednesday I visited a plastic surgeon, the latest in a line of doctors trying to save my skin. Literally.
Dermatologist #1 freaked out and referred me to melanoma expert and who has set up an entire practice devoted to just skin cancer, out in Virginia. Yeah, that's a fun referral to get. So, every once in a while, I get checked and whittled by that doc. Fine.
The latest visit unearthed the typical atypicals and I braced for some more whittling away at my skin. Alas, this time the weirdness requires the deft touch of a plastic surgeon to minimize scarring. This has happened before, with a different plastic surgeon. The main thing I remember was a woman in the waiting room complaining that insurance doesn't cover Botox.
I actually have very little against the plastic surgery industry. Most of it, methinks, is devoted to reconstructive endeavors, keeping folks cancer-free with a bit of extra precision, and things like my mom's reduction surgery after breast cancer.
And you know what? Cosmetic stuff has value too. Why should a flat-chested woman not have surgery if she really wants curvier figure and clothes to fit? Why should ANY person not feel free to make whatever choice she wants to adjust this or that?
But.
I walked into the swanky office and was greeted by a receptionist who looked like, um, yeah. She'd definitely had work done. She just looked fake. But whatever, she liked my handbag and cowgirl boots, so she definitely had taste.
As I filled out my forms, I looked around the room. I was the only patient there. The walls were entirely covered with ads for various wrinkle fillers and pamphlets and brochures for how to fix yourself.
Outside.
Body contouring? Liposuction? Git 'er done here!
There was a giant chart where you could determine whether your frown-line wrinkle is a level I, II, or III. Along with, of course, a brand of something you can pump in there to smooth it all out.
Now, although I think we can all agree that Ashley's nose is too big, and breastfeeding totally deflated the girls (La Leche League is full of LIARS when it comes to how that ruins your boobies), I'm pretty much okay with how I look. At least, much more so than I was, say, at age 14 or 20 or 24.
'Tis one of the blessings of one's thirties.
I mean, I'm sure as hell going to keep coloring my hair and overspending on Bobbi Brown cosmetics, but the end result means that I can look in the mirror and say, "Good enough!" and MEAN IT.
Despite all of this I'm-so-evolved-in-my-enlightened-postfeminist-thirties philosophical musings as I copied down my insurance information, by the time I was placed in the "consulting" chair, literally in the middle of a small room, I felt uneasy. I found myself wondering whether all the female staff (there were a lot of them) were sizing me up and secretly wondering why I didn't DO something about x, y, or z. Perhaps my schnoz. Perhaps what Mums calls the itty bitty titty committee. Or maybe something that hadn't even crossed my radar yet! I mean, I'M IN MY MID-30s! Maybe I was sitting there, smugly thinking I look fantastic--when I don't!
Well, if that wasn't enough paranoia, the plastic surgeon waltzed in shortly thereafter. And of course he was MALE, which lent its own special brand of judgy-judgy unpleasantness. He was charming and professional and agreed with the other doctor that some stuff on my leg and stomach needed to go. "My dear," he said, "We'll do the incision like this, add some stitches, and do our very best to leave as little scarring as possible."
I smiled my passive, agreeable acquiescence and, relieved my adjudication was over, got dressed and scheduled the procedure. I couldn't wait to get out of there.
It was ridiculous. I'M SMARTER THAN THIS, I reasoned. But even with all my brainpower combating the messages draped around the plastic surgeon's office, that messaging was still pricking my consciousness here and there. Mainly, that how you just ARE is not okay, if it doesn't meet certain aesthetic standards. And while we may intelligently know this is bullshit, the messaging still . . . well, the message still gets across.
One other thing: Every single photo showed a woman. Every. Single. One.
So on that peppy note, let's move on to this week's reading.
Lorelei's obsession with Room on the Broom continues. We read it every single night. I'm so tired of it, I begged Charlotte to read it to her the past couple nights.
Charlotte is still in her Variations of Pinkalicious phase. From various libraries (school, town),she's read Purpliscioius, Silveralicious, Emeraldalicious. Now she just brought home Aqualiscious. They're not terribly well-written in my view. Sure, fanciful but . . . I don't know. I've never managed to be charmed by the Pinkalicious books. But I'm not the target audience. Charlotte is.
Together for our "long" book, we've been reading Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer, which my friend Lauren recommended. I think it's very sweet and wry, but Charlotte seems a little lukewarm about the novel. Still, she's interested in the bitchy chicken and also the strangeness of the heroine writing to her dead relatives. We shall see.
We finally finished Little House in the Big Woods, which was kind of cool because I read the entire book aloud to her from the EXACT SAME COPY that my mom read aloud to me, close to 30 years ago. I thought of Mums reading to me every time I opened the book. Sure, we had to tape some pages back in here and there, but something about that whole endeavor made me just plain happy.
Me, I've been mostly reading Sonata Mulattica this week, a work of poems by Rita Dove that follows the life and work of a mulatto violin prodigy who befriended Beethoven. I just finished it this morning and it's effing brilliant. The poems switch form and tone, they explore all sorts of hefty themes with wit and brilliance and beauty, and accomplish what good art does---articulation of big fat truths. So good.
On a drier note, yet serendipitously related to the violin, I'm continuing to read in smaller bits Helping Parents Practice, by the Suzuki teacher slash psychotherapist who is trying his darndest to keep me from screwing up Charlotte's pursuit of learning the violin. It's a fantastically useful book, but it's not well organized. But I'll take it.
Last, I'm hitting the climax of Ruby Holler, a wonderful middle grade novel. I'll write more on that when I'm done with it. But those of you with older elementary school kiddos, check that one out from the library, stat.
Dermatologist #1 freaked out and referred me to melanoma expert and who has set up an entire practice devoted to just skin cancer, out in Virginia. Yeah, that's a fun referral to get. So, every once in a while, I get checked and whittled by that doc. Fine.
The latest visit unearthed the typical atypicals and I braced for some more whittling away at my skin. Alas, this time the weirdness requires the deft touch of a plastic surgeon to minimize scarring. This has happened before, with a different plastic surgeon. The main thing I remember was a woman in the waiting room complaining that insurance doesn't cover Botox.
I actually have very little against the plastic surgery industry. Most of it, methinks, is devoted to reconstructive endeavors, keeping folks cancer-free with a bit of extra precision, and things like my mom's reduction surgery after breast cancer.
And you know what? Cosmetic stuff has value too. Why should a flat-chested woman not have surgery if she really wants curvier figure and clothes to fit? Why should ANY person not feel free to make whatever choice she wants to adjust this or that?
But.
I walked into the swanky office and was greeted by a receptionist who looked like, um, yeah. She'd definitely had work done. She just looked fake. But whatever, she liked my handbag and cowgirl boots, so she definitely had taste.
As I filled out my forms, I looked around the room. I was the only patient there. The walls were entirely covered with ads for various wrinkle fillers and pamphlets and brochures for how to fix yourself.
Outside.
Body contouring? Liposuction? Git 'er done here!
There was a giant chart where you could determine whether your frown-line wrinkle is a level I, II, or III. Along with, of course, a brand of something you can pump in there to smooth it all out.
Now, although I think we can all agree that Ashley's nose is too big, and breastfeeding totally deflated the girls (La Leche League is full of LIARS when it comes to how that ruins your boobies), I'm pretty much okay with how I look. At least, much more so than I was, say, at age 14 or 20 or 24.
'Tis one of the blessings of one's thirties.
I mean, I'm sure as hell going to keep coloring my hair and overspending on Bobbi Brown cosmetics, but the end result means that I can look in the mirror and say, "Good enough!" and MEAN IT.
Despite all of this I'm-so-evolved-in-my-enlightened-postfeminist-thirties philosophical musings as I copied down my insurance information, by the time I was placed in the "consulting" chair, literally in the middle of a small room, I felt uneasy. I found myself wondering whether all the female staff (there were a lot of them) were sizing me up and secretly wondering why I didn't DO something about x, y, or z. Perhaps my schnoz. Perhaps what Mums calls the itty bitty titty committee. Or maybe something that hadn't even crossed my radar yet! I mean, I'M IN MY MID-30s! Maybe I was sitting there, smugly thinking I look fantastic--when I don't!
Well, if that wasn't enough paranoia, the plastic surgeon waltzed in shortly thereafter. And of course he was MALE, which lent its own special brand of judgy-judgy unpleasantness. He was charming and professional and agreed with the other doctor that some stuff on my leg and stomach needed to go. "My dear," he said, "We'll do the incision like this, add some stitches, and do our very best to leave as little scarring as possible."
I smiled my passive, agreeable acquiescence and, relieved my adjudication was over, got dressed and scheduled the procedure. I couldn't wait to get out of there.
It was ridiculous. I'M SMARTER THAN THIS, I reasoned. But even with all my brainpower combating the messages draped around the plastic surgeon's office, that messaging was still pricking my consciousness here and there. Mainly, that how you just ARE is not okay, if it doesn't meet certain aesthetic standards. And while we may intelligently know this is bullshit, the messaging still . . . well, the message still gets across.
One other thing: Every single photo showed a woman. Every. Single. One.
So on that peppy note, let's move on to this week's reading.
Lorelei's obsession with Room on the Broom continues. We read it every single night. I'm so tired of it, I begged Charlotte to read it to her the past couple nights.
Charlotte is still in her Variations of Pinkalicious phase. From various libraries (school, town),she's read Purpliscioius, Silveralicious, Emeraldalicious. Now she just brought home Aqualiscious. They're not terribly well-written in my view. Sure, fanciful but . . . I don't know. I've never managed to be charmed by the Pinkalicious books. But I'm not the target audience. Charlotte is.
Together for our "long" book, we've been reading Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer, which my friend Lauren recommended. I think it's very sweet and wry, but Charlotte seems a little lukewarm about the novel. Still, she's interested in the bitchy chicken and also the strangeness of the heroine writing to her dead relatives. We shall see.
We finally finished Little House in the Big Woods, which was kind of cool because I read the entire book aloud to her from the EXACT SAME COPY that my mom read aloud to me, close to 30 years ago. I thought of Mums reading to me every time I opened the book. Sure, we had to tape some pages back in here and there, but something about that whole endeavor made me just plain happy.
Me, I've been mostly reading Sonata Mulattica this week, a work of poems by Rita Dove that follows the life and work of a mulatto violin prodigy who befriended Beethoven. I just finished it this morning and it's effing brilliant. The poems switch form and tone, they explore all sorts of hefty themes with wit and brilliance and beauty, and accomplish what good art does---articulation of big fat truths. So good.
On a drier note, yet serendipitously related to the violin, I'm continuing to read in smaller bits Helping Parents Practice, by the Suzuki teacher slash psychotherapist who is trying his darndest to keep me from screwing up Charlotte's pursuit of learning the violin. It's a fantastically useful book, but it's not well organized. But I'll take it.
Last, I'm hitting the climax of Ruby Holler, a wonderful middle grade novel. I'll write more on that when I'm done with it. But those of you with older elementary school kiddos, check that one out from the library, stat.
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