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Is There a Plastic Surgeon in the House?

When did plastic surgery advertisements become so prominent in every publication known to mankind, and when did rejuvenation ads replace the tire circulars in the Sunday paper? Is it really necessary to choose between steel-belted radials and Botox? I remember when images of bare asses and breasts the size of cantaloupes could only be found in girly magazines. It really pisses me off and not because I’m a prude – I could use some perky honkers.

I’m not always happy with my body, but I also discovered that the less time spent naked in front of the mirror, the better. I’m sure there is some economic theory of diminishing returns that can be applied. But it has more to do with self-esteem than weight loss, which I’m sure requires countless hours of psycho therapy, whatever. Every woman I know has issues with her body, and we spend our lives comparing ourselves to models or other unrealistic/airbrushed images.

I guess a case still exists for plastic surgery. If money was no object and I wasn’t scared of knives, anesthesia and surgical complications, I might give it a shot. But where would I start and could I stop once I began?

Of course I would want my tummy tucked, and the thighs definitely need some work after losing so much weight. Victoria’s Secret performs wonderful non-surgical enhancement for the girls, but would I really want breasts sagging all the way to my new firm attractive tummy? What about my arms? They look pretty good for a woman of my age. God, when did that phrase enter my repertoire? Once I have perky boobs, a flat tummy, trim thighs and a cellulite free bum, would light shine down upon me?

A conversation I shared with my mom continues to haunt me. The crux – today is as good as it gets. Let me say that my mom looks fantastic. She has a great fashion sense, and so far anyway, permanently creased polyester pants have not found their way into her closet. She dresses with popular trends in mind, but is cognizant that she is now in her sixties – so no midriff belly shirts. Her hair, make-up and nails are always well-quaffed. If her theory is true, at 60 will I wish that I had my 40-year-old dimply ass back?

I encounter elderly women all the time who are more obsessed about body image than me. This dilemma curses women across generations, but when will we give ourselves permission to enjoy the women we are today? Can I learn to accept me, and grow old as was intended?

I love to see women who are older than me who seem “with it,” but who also embrace the aging process, wrinkles, gray hair and all. Has it become so common place to surgically alter our bodies that we forget about who we are in the first place? I’m not opposed to having work done, and who knows there may come a time when I want to actively pursue this option. But before I entertain the idea, I think it is important to examine the reasons behind the desire.

In the meantime, I will continue my love affair with control top panty hose. Oh, and me and Victoria’s Secret will remain best friends.


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