You Had Me at Rhinoplasty

February 10, 2010

Well, it’s the beginning of February, and that means that holiday of Hallmark holidays is coming up this weekend. And in honor of that magical day of romance and tenderness, most newspaper, Internet, and magazine ads are telling you all the ways you can alter your appearance, act especially out of character, or spend exorbitant amounts of money in the hopes of finally satisfying that special someone in your life who—assuredly—has just been putting up with you out of sympathy and ignoring crippling disappointment until now.  And isn’t that nice of them?

Who can ignore the nigh-pornographic images on a current gym advertisement of a half-naked couple—so tightly toned, you could bounce a quarter off the newspaper ad—on the verge of bumping pretties. And that thought bubble floating up from the Ken doll-looking gentleman pondering how grateful he is that Barbie’s abstained from a normal healthy caloric intake and subjected herself to grueling daily hours at the gym instead of that pesky bookworm habit. And all for this perfect Valentine’s Day moment of passion.

And thanks to all the dental offices out there whose February advertisements remind you that tooth-colored teeth will never, never do when attempting to knock the socks off your significant other with your winning smile on this very special night. You need a blinding grin, ladies, as you indulge in sweet conversation over a rich bottle of Merlot… which will end up temporarily darkening your teeth anyway, but really it’s the thought that counts.

I think possibly the most helpful are the Valentine’s Day ads for cosmetic surgery clinics, like this one from Nu U Medspa that accommodatingly informs you it’s not too late to surprise your Valentine’s date with a new you.  *Pause to hear the majestic singing* Presumably your date asked out the old you with the intent of trading up for a better model. Nu U is here to grant you relief by letting you know that you can still have that little procedure before your big V-day date this year! You know… apparently it’s still early enough that the pussing sores from your permanent body alteration will probably have healed in time for you to limp along on your evening of unbridled romance at the steak house and subsequent Jennifer Garner feature film. Why—if you grab a week’s package with Nu U, you could be smoothed out, hairless, with the fat siphoned out of your hips and ass and joyfully pumped back into your lips and laugh lines for a truly reasonable introductory payment plan!

I especially appreciate that I can re-contour my face and plump my lips by buying one syringe and getting the second syringe half-off. God, that’s a generous offer. It actually borders on philanthropy, and I’ve been meaning to write the city to ask for a day commemorating Nu U’s altruism. Happy Valentine’s Day—here’s your (half-free) second ass-fat needle; you’ll be looking like a Real Girl in positively no time, darling! And won’t he be a lucky guy. Additionally—since any date of yours who prefers you stiff-faced and full of tiny seepage holes is such a tremendous catch to begin with, won’t you be a lucky lady? Love is in the air…hmm-mm-mmm-mmm…

This all hearkens back to a fascinating and funny (in a laughing-so-you-don’t-cry kind of way) article I read at the end of January: The 6 Weirdest Things Women Do to Their Vaginas. Somewhere along the way, some brilliant person realized that we women are completely overlooking yet another way to feel adequate and satisfied—modifying our ugly, grotesquely horrible vaginas into pink, little fluffy pelvic clouds. Because lord knows, our dates have always spent all evening thinking up ways to avoid them. In fact, I can’t tell you how often I’d hear the resounding cry of the typical male—not to mention lesbian—lamenting that dreadful moment at the end of the date when they have to try and come in contact with these awful orifices. Thankfully, women are given expensive ways to make our vaginas minty, pale, bald, and less “floppy,” “irregular,” or “unfeminine.” You know, less like freaks of nature; more like god intended when he created microdermabrasion and chemical peels.

In short, thank you to all the companies out there who have reached out to us who read your advertisements during this fine, frosty February. Your encouragement toward creating the perfect evening does not go unnoticed.

This year, however, I do believe I’m going to give a Valentine’s Day gift to myself. Selfish, I know, but whaddayagonna do?

I am going to dress the way I want. No, no, seriously. I’m going to dress the way I want. I’m going to keep company for the evening who not only thinks this is a good idea, but who is also dressed the way they want. I’m going to eat a normal-sized meal and behave in a way that’s comfortable. I’m not going to attempt to impress anyone by looking or acting in a way I normally wouldn’t. And I damn sure expect the same in return. I’m going to spend a very reasonable amount of money, and I’m going to use all the money I’m not spending trying to impress on actually worthwhile things. And to top it all off, I’m going to have the audacity to think this is the perfect way to spend an evening, and also completely memorable (or, failing that, I’m going to realize that this is just another day and go about my business like someone who hasn’t lost their goddamn mind).

And I wish the same for all those I love. This means you.

Save

You know, it has come to my awareness that anyone at all visiting my parents’ house should get an Airborn cocktail and a sprinkling of Lysol upon exiting the premises. There is always, always sickness here. It’s unreal. Before I had temporarily moved back in with them this year, nearly every time I’d visit for a weekend, at least one of these people—up to all three—would be ailing. I frequently consider whether this house is cursed, the antibacterial Dial soap dispensers are haunted, or merely our particular genetic coding is meant to die out. Perhaps it’s the perfect storm of all three, and some day the entire lot of Hofer hearth and home is meant to collapse into a Biblical-level of plagues.

“And on that day, Walgreen’s closed its doors in mourning, and the pharmaceutical world wept bitter tears.”

I very much used to be part of this state of perpetual malady before I had moved away from home, continually falling to this flu and that cold, this infection and that bacteria. So, since moving back in here at the beginning of January, I’ve been particularly wary of anyone in this house who even sniffs in an odd manner, let alone gives up a cough or a pained expression of some sort.

And it’s not like my family doesn’t continue to hand me significant challenges. Currently, due to a minor back injury (see previous two posts), I’ve spent the last few days laying on their living room couch, first atop a bag of ice, and then atop a much friendlier hot water bottle. And meanwhile two out of the three house-dwellers have once again taken ill, parading around me with Kleenex all weekend. I have been handed beverages and pills from these people, all the while knowing that the people doing the handing are harboring millions of nasty little germs that would love to claim another weakling. But I was hurting, so I tried not to move too much. So far, I have sat in the bacterial lion’s den and haven’t gotten bitten. So far. Quick—everyone reading go knock on wood! Both of you!

How have I evaded this illness so far? Actually, how have I—a member of this group—managed to have avoided internal bodily calamities for generally the last half year? (Note: I’m not counting frequent migraines, asthma-related issues, or the odd cough and sniffle.)

Well, I’m not entirely sure. My best guess is that I appear to have managed to escape it so far this season by washing my hands roughly 45 times a day (by roughly washing my hands 45 times a day, too), a maneuver I highly recommend to anyone whose hand skin has grievously insulted them in some manner, since this will certainly kick the ever-loving crap out of it (if not beat it within an inch of its life). Who needs hand skin, anyway? However, if your hand skin has not offended you in some way, I really only would prescribe this for people like me—people who seemingly just have a wad of gum and an old “IOU” in a prevailing deity’s handwriting where their immune system was supposed to have been placed.

I don’t know precisely what’s kept me from falling subject to the wrath of family microbes, but I’m going to try to ride this out as long as I can. Now if I could only have a similar talking-to with my muscles and bones, I might be on track to becoming a normally functioning human being.

But then there’s always that pesky psychological factor. Hmm. Must hammer out the details a little more with my superego.

Until then, here’s wishing you (and me) good health!

Save