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Number
48: April 14, 2004
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This week in Katydid:
Extreme
Beauty
I must say, it's been difficult to keep up. Many years ago, I concluded
that I had average looks. Not ugly, but not striking. The thought of my
mediocrity plagued me until I began to consider altering my appearance.
It was around puberty the process began. It seemed that everyone
around me was lithe and slender, so I began using clothing to compress
my natural features. Angel Flight slacks and Jordache jeans transformed
my thick and normal limbs into straight rails of beauty.
My hair, which was annoyingly flat and lifeless, became the golden
ringlets of a movie star through art of the permanent wave. But there
was nothing to be done about my face. It was the bad mix of both German
and Russian heritage – broad and flat with drooping eyes and ruddy
complexion.
Try as I might, I couldn't escape the heavy pug nose, but then came
the golden age of plastic surgery. For a few thousand dollars, I could
have someone break my nose with a hammer, cut into my flesh and chisel
out the useless impediments to my success. The bags were simply tucked
away with the twist of a knife.
Unfortunately, the smaller, sharper nose emphasized my heavy brow
ridge, which I promptly requested be reduced with the assistance of the
surgeons saw and file.
Sadly, by the time I had earned enough, had the procedure, and
completed healing, the lithe limbs I had worked so hard on in my youth
were no longer considered handsome. It was the eighties and I needed to
emulate the burly objects of womanly desires – strong, well-muscled
heroic figures seemingly carved in stone.
I took to the gym but soon ran into my all too solid genetics, which
seemed to conspire against my ever being attractive. Fortunately, where
genetics leaves off, chemistry begins. With the right combination of
ingredients, I was soon so suggestively bulky that I could scarce bring
my arms together or scratch my new nose.
My complexion, always too pale and uneven would not take a tan. Even
under the carefully controlled conditions of the tanning salon, my fair
skin never turned darker than an ashy grey. Cosmetic lotions seemed to
do the trick, though I still gleamed a bit more orange than rustic.
Though I thought women would marvel at my powerful arms, broad chest
and sturdy legs, it seemed that fate would pull another cruel trick as
the nineties ushered in the grunge generation. How I longed to return to
my pasty complexion, my skinny limbs, and unwashed hair that hung down
over my eyes.
The transformation took several years to accomplish. I quit working
out and disposed of the chemicals. I cut off the golden curls and let my
hair grow back long in its natural dishwater color. My skin transformed
the fastest, but I could do nothing about my nose and brow, which were
now too symmetric and attractive.
My surgeon told me there was little I could do there. He suggested
resetting my jaw, which had become thick and protruding. (An unfortunate
result of my foray into chemical bodybuilding.)
The work was not perfect. Some things still stood out. I had the work
done, but my teeth, capped in gleaming white, stood out against my now
pallid complexion and my weakened jaw.
Then, of course, came the end of grunge and the beginning of the
athlete/model. The flat abs and the strong agile physiques. My muscles
did not respond the way they used to; the pumped look would not do. Not
wanting to lose the battle with time, my doctor and I concluded that the
best result would be a series of implants.
By now, my surgeon had made great strides in the field. I had chin,
cheek, calf, pec, and buttock sculpted in molded plastic. I looked as
though I could run a three-minute mile, except excessive physical
activity might dislodge the implants.
On the plus side, my hair, which had become thin and brittle through
years of chemical treatment, was easy to depart with for the clean pate
that marked the look of the professional athlete/model.
Then came the yoga years.
What I saw in the mirror depressed me once again, I looked like one
of the G.I. Joe action figures I had played with as a boy. I attempted
to contort myself into the various poses, but the more I worked out, the
less my implants fit me. I looked perpetually like I was wearing
kneepads the wrong way. I had to have them removed.
I took to hiding in my house, watching TV. My muscles atrophied, the
scar tissue hardened and it became painful just to move around the
house. To cope with my depression I began eating again (the male
anorexia look now out of fashion). Soon I began to gain weight, except
of course where I had been liposuctioned. In my waist and thighs where
my fat cells had been permanently removed, I was still lean, but with
nowhere else to go, the fat began build up elsewhere. I looked like a
Michelin man missing a few tires.
Reality shows became my favorite pastime. Then they started: "Extreme
Makeover" on ABC, "I
Want a Famous Face" on MTV, and finally "The
Swan" on FOX. And here was I, their poster child, unable to
rise from the couch.
How I longed for the instant transformation; a chance to look like
the photos in the magazines; a chance to emulate my idols and attract the
ideal woman.
All eyes would be upon me as they prepared for the final reveal.
There I would stand transformed while all applauded. My loved ones and
even total strangers would shower me with hugs and kisses (a welcome
relief to the slightly defensive glances I used to receive after my
personal efforts at transformation). How wonderful to smile just once
and not reveal my artificial caps, but a complete set of gleaming da Vinci Veneers. Oh!
Then, as I watched "The Swan," it hit me. As I watched the
doors open to reveal the reconstructed figures; as I saw the welcoming
team of grinning surgeons, cosmetic dentists, personal trainers, and
life coaches applauding and wiping tears off their preternaturally
smooth cheeks; as I watched the women drop in shock and proclaim,
"I'm beautiful!" while their faces were too paralyzed with Botox to register the emotion; I realized, they're not applauding her
for transforming into her ideal self. They're applauding her for
transforming into one of them.
With my hand raised, I pointed toward the TV, like the final victim
in Invasion of the Body
Snatchers. Their fake smiles, their artificial
bodies, their unfurrowed brows were all part of the propaganda: their
own need to convert others to reassure themselves that they were right
too for going under the knife.
But now I knew. It was only
fashion. You can't keep up. There's not
enough material to keep chopping away forever. I may not have been
perfect, but like a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day, and
a slow clock is never right, I would have been better off to stay as I
was. Fashion would catch up to me someday.
In the mean time, I would have to fight for my own identity. I would
need to declare my independence.
My name is Kevin Darling, and I am a
self-esteem addict.
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Kind regards,
Kevin Troy Darling
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