Plastic Nation

Plastic Nation
by Monika McDole

I'm almost 30. That means I'm getting to the point where it's time to
start interviewing surgeons for a little spring clean-up for the ol'
bod.
Now, I know there are a lot of different opinions about why women (and
men) have plastic surgery, and even if they should at all. "Be saggy
and proud!" I guess, is the rallying cry from those who think you
shouldn't fight the aging process. I think that's great. Sag away; more
power to you. But I'm just going to go over here and have a little nip
and tuck, thank you very much.

And why not? I mean, I view my body as a vehicle. I exercise it,
shaping muscles I wouldn't even know I had if not for pumping iron,
pour vitamins into it that I wouldn't get in the ordinary way of
things; why not give it a little physical renovation, too?

It's not like I'm kidding myself. I'm not 18, and I know I'll never
look 18 again, no matter how much Botox I shoot up or how much silicone
I have "artfully inserted".
But I don't want to have plastic surgery to take ten years off my age.
Every one of those years has contributed to who I am and what makes me
unique. Why would I want to get rid of them? I just want to buff up the
masterpiece. Kind of like sanding down a wood carving, or polishing a
diamond, you know?
No, I'm not after being told that I look 18 or even 21 again. I just
want to hear, "That is one fine looking woman!" from every single man
that walks past me. And I don't think that's too much to ask.

So, in search of the Perfect Surgeon to trust my vehicle to, I started
scouting around the immediate vicinity. It just so happens that I live
in a retirement/resort community, and you can hardly turn around
without tripping over an MD that caters to the aging Baby Boomer
set.
I'm not so old as to be a Boomer myself, but I figure that they must be
even more frantic to look "enhanced" than I am, and if I can find a
surgeon who's used to working with women older than my mother, anything
I want him to do will be a piece of cake. Or that was my theory,
anyway.

I started my search by visiting the most expensive plastic surgeon in
town. I figured that since it's my face, I should spare no expense. I
don't mind cutting corners on my shoes or my shampoo, but it's really
hard to hide a cheap PS job, and even harder to undo. So, with that
very rational consideration foremost in my mind, I took the
plunge.

The doc was nice enough, if you don't mind that lack of a personality
or interest in the patient as anything other than a wallet with a
health problem that seems to be prevalent in the medical profession
these days.

I talked to Dr. Personality Minus for a few minutes, all the while
growing more and more aware of the fact that he was scrutinizing my
face with a good deal of professional speculation.
"So," I said with a nervous laugh (I can't help it. I'm trying to break
myself of the habit, but I have a really annoying tendency to giggle
giddily when being stared at with intense, humorless regard.) "When do
you think I'll be up for some work?"
"Now." Doc Minus said, without a hint of jocularity.
This was about five years sooner than I planned for, so I was a little
taken aback.
"Uh, is it my lids? Are they, um, drooping?"
"Maybe a little. But frankly, I find the fat bags under your eyes more
distracting."
"My what?"
This conversation was fast heading in a totally unexpected direction. I
felt like I had just shown up at a black tie dinner in cutoffs and a
tank top.
"Your fat bags." He repeated, poking at them with the eraser end of his
pencil, his tone indicating that they were clear as day to him.

I immediately began to feel like the proverbial person with spinach on
a front tooth, or a woman who unknowingly tucked her skirt into her
pantyhose in the ladies room.
How many other people had I met up with who, while talking to me or
working with me, couldn't stop thinking "Will she ever do something
about those fat pads?"

Upon arriving home, I ran to the mirror, shocked to find that, yes, I
do have fat pads under my eyes! How could I have missed them? How could
I have gone almost three decades completely oblivious to the hangers-on
literally existing under my very eyes!
I was momentarily panicked by the thought of going anywhere, anywhere
at all, before having them removed. But, I soon calmed down enough to
see reason. The reason, of course, being that my current financial
state will not tolerate such a sizable withdrawal from my
reserves.

Perhaps now you can understand why I feel so strongly about plastic
surgery. I am, after all, for equal rights and the preservation of a
beautiful world. How can I stand for those things and still inflict my
fat-padded face on the world?
No, it is my civic and moral duty to undergo a some fixer-upper
work.
I can only say that when I am done, I hope, fervently, not to look 18
again. I hope to look an order of magnitude better.