I arrived at five to nine, checked in with reception, and took my seat.
I plonked myself down, edged tentatively, and started rifling through old trashy mags from the early noughties. I'm sure Paris Hilton would be pleased to know that in this cosmetic surgery's waiting room, she was still front cover material.
It was scant solace to see other people there. I heaved a sigh of relief. I considered it reassuring, in a way, knowing that I wasn't fully alone, mentally and physically. Camaraderie of sorts, strength in numbers, and whatnot.
The room was eerily quiet. After I was done nosing on heyday Paris, I watched in silence for a bit. I found the awkward atmosphere comforting. It allowed the seriousness of my whereabouts to properly sink in, no distractions to allay my fears. Everyone was equally ill at ease in the environment, familiar or unfamiliar, regulars or first-timers, it didn't hold any significance, they were all still unsettled by the surroundings. This wasn't a sea of smiling faces, thrills were scarce in this hostile space.
Eyeing the room, I began projecting my own meanings onto everyone. I was like a detective in a movie profiling a serial killer. Discretely working out their body language, speculating back stories, discerning motives, conjuring up bizarre narratives, secretly hoping one of them, at least, would launch into a long and open rigmarole into how they merited being here. Squinting, on the sly, to see if their eyes betrayed a little resentment too. Analyzing by what means they were displeased by their displeasures.
Were they craving validation via a scalpel because they were so unsure of their own virtues? Taking sanctuary in elective surgery because they feel so irrevocably damaged. Were they worn down too? Did they feel like crumbling in upon themselves? They had to be devoid of love. A high-tech treatment must be their sole avenue to methodically securing the keys to their own prisons.
Maybe, there was no large-scale intent behind their visits, they weren't rotted in underlying feelings of inadequacy or aspiring to fend off self-doubt. Just folk gliding serenely through it all, leaving you to wonder if they're really taking anything in. A other-worldliness, self-serving system consisting of superficial, shallow, people with warped ideals of beauty. Victims of their own perfection-hungry lifestyles.
Before my mind could go cray-cray, my name was called and I was summoned through for my appointment.
It was a complimentary consultation.
Because that's what these sort of businesses do to try and lure you in and showcase their credentials. Believing a first impression, done correctly, is a successful opportunity to pitch their service and ultimately help entrust potential customers needs onto them. Their reasoning being once you've dipped your baby toe into the water, you'll feel obliged to go back.
I explained to the consultant, humbly and embarrassed, that I have fifteen freckles/moles on my face. Some rise above my skin, the majority don't, and three in particular annoy me more than the others. I demonstrated how they're not all in the one area, but omnipresent and spread across my face. I described feeling like a join-the-dots worksheet, as well as a giraffe and a chocolate chip cookie. I joked how ridiculous I sounded, then he laughed obediently, stopping hastily, annoyed by his compliance. I asked if I could undergo a laser or freezing treatment, as Google informed me a more invasive option might cause scaring, and becoming a personified cheese grater was an obvious no-no.
He was a larger than life elderly character. He stroked his beard a lot and lapsed into Latin, a few times, with accompanying flourishes of the arms and hands, both mannerisms were highly entertaining but not exactly educational or beneficial.
He examined my face whilst I faced the wall not making a move or sound.
He spoke some medical jargon and said something negative about dermatologists.
He asked me about sport.
Then, he gave me a card with my next appointment details, telling me to come back in three weeks for electrofulguration. If that didn't work we could attempt a shave biopsy or have one or two of the larger ones surgically excised.
I didn't go back.
For a multitude of reasons.
Y'see, my aesthetic is a solid six out of ten on a good day. I have an overspill of fat over the top of where my belt fastens. It's impossible to take a straight shot from neck to hip without lots of shapely hurdles to contend with. There's stretch marks across my stomach that look like I'm permanently sporting a Where's Wally top. I have male cleavage, it jiggles when I run, meeting the entry requirements for a bra. My teeth are discoloured, crooked, decayed, both the top and bottom sets are having a crowded party I'm not invited to. I've avoided, years ago, smiling with an open mouth.
Add two dark under-eye circles, a bizarrely shaped receding hairline, and an almost non-existent top lip, and you've got enough essential ingredients to create my doppelganger. I'm very Ellen DeGeneres, if she had a hangover.
I don't consider myself conventionally attractive, is the thing. I'm not the guy you approach at the bar. Damn, some days I look in the mirror and often consider not leaving the house in case I scare small children. It's all a bit of a wet weekend.
(Apologies for the self-indulgent rant but this is going somewhere).
And I know these are solely my own thoughts. I'm melodramatically playing the sympathy violin, but that's why cosmetic surgery was always, to me, a big fat yes. My philosophy was if I feel self-conscious about it, by all means, do whatever I want to make myself feel better and then spend less time fretting about it and more time getting on with my life.
To smooth out my imperfections or erase them entirely was a concept that appealed to me massively. Once, I earned the disposable cash, I've said from the get-go I'd have it all done. All imperfections would be shooed out of sight, out of mind. A skilled surgeon can give me a flat stomach, a strong chin, and pump me with silicone to look like Chris Pratt?! Sign me the fuck up!
We all experience varying degrees of self-deprecation.
It's everywhere, embedded into our social infrastructure. This isn't a sudden phenomenon, but something that has wound its way around the globe for decades, centuries.
Plastered across billboards, bus stops, magazines are messages commanding appearance to be the ultimate aim. Ideals are consistently rammed down our throats. We've become emotionally fluent in the art of self-doubt and condemning ourselves, the gaps are widening between who we are and who we're supposed to be. Unattainable beauty standards have become rote, we're told we should all be striving for that elusive goal of perfection. We're bombarded by unrealistic images on social media, becoming overly critical of ourselves in the process. And it's so easy to fall into the trap and feel rubbish about yourself.
We can convince ourselves we are less of a target, but we each know, deep down, we're not.
The entire world celebrates thin people, attractive people and if you don't fit the ideal you're told to try and match up and be that way. To lose weight, to have better skin, to apply filters over the large nose, to only pose for photos from the more flattering angle. You're shamed for being fat, and more so nowadays, you're shamed for not being 'healthy'. Everyday there's fresh criticism - berating something that no longer fits the required brief. It's a culture that has turned into its own elitist club. One where you're frowned upon for not taking active measures to present yourself as beautiful and emulate the minefield. We've become so accustomed to the inundation that we're regularly editing our own photos on multiple different apps before posting because the entire machine primes us to view our untouched selves as lesser in status.
We never see the similarities, only the differences.
We loathe and apply beady eyed scrutiny on ourselves, clinging onto the vestiges of our self-esteem. We deem parts of our bodies a sub-class it's okay to hate, mock. The consensus being that we are all packaged commodities, and shall treat ourselves accordingly. We speak about ourselves with plain-speaking judgement, talk openly about altering our appearance, passing harsh, egregious comments. Programmed to obsess over what it is we hate. We look in the mirror and consider our bodies the architecture of our own misfortune.
We'll post Snapchat updates in Supermacs, only if we're ridiculing ourselves, the pantomime fools, village idiots, for being there at all, poking fun at our own absurdity because otherwise, we feel, there might be someone, anyone, out there, frowning upon us for eating a burger. We have to reprimand ourselves first so that we're in on the joke, rather than the subject of a crueler one and risking stigmatisation.
And I am holding myself accountable, too, my attitude has been gross. But I am learning. Because the sad thing is we're becoming too blasé about it all, there is a dangerous gap in public knowledge on what this is doing to us long-term.
Back to the plastic surgery conundrum.
If the opportunity arose, I'd wave a magic wand and make a list of changes. It would maximise my happiness and create full enjoyment.
I've been so neurotic about every aspect of my body - that I don't have space in my soul to think about anything else. But when I have that protective feel-good shell around me, the new improved shield will help me rise to the occasion of myself. I'd be a fish no longer out of place in the ocean, with my new up-to-date gills. My mind would be a blank canvas without the routine worry.
Booyah! All those voices in my head would shut up. I'd be like a child on Christmas morning.
I'd come out the other side reborn!
Any glimmers of pain tugging at the hem of my mind could, would, should be finally quieted. It would erase all the shitty things I have done, tolerated, humiliations endured, painful memories accumulated. The faulty parts of my thinking would be rearranged, a new headspace would be introduced. My miserable demeanor would be uplifted and it'd be the stepping stone to no longer being a hostage to my past. Fawning attention was the holy grail. It brought and built value.
I'd finally like the version of myself reflected back at me. I won't have to shrink to fit into this world, I'd take up the space I deserve. Oh baby, when that invitation would arrive all would manifest gold star. Things would begin to pay dividends. It'd be the confidence boost to prompt me to finally get my chaos in gear.
I've spent months - years, if we're going to get truly honest - thinking that any minute now my Actual Life will begin. The life where I'm supposed to do all the things I haven't done yet: the degree I haven't finished, the driving license I haven't obtained, the love I haven't fallen into - all those trips abroad I'm going to have and properly enjoy this time. It would be the solution to all my problems: my anxieties would dissipate, my sleep would improve. Everything and anything will be easier to tackle when I'm not embarking upon an ongoing war with my appearance.
Maybe, with age really does come wisdom because, sometime recently, I called out my bull-slinging. I've learned engineering a quick fix might temporary soothe me, but it's not going to defeat anything long term.
I was clinging to this idea that my newfound beauty would award me with the weary rationale of a junkie. The blame fell on my body for so long, it was at fault and the cause of all things wrong.
Accepting the present moment and living in the now. That's my big project. No more chapters or interludes or fancied concepts of hopeful beginnings and satisfying ends. Eliminating storyboards for how stuff will pan out. Learning that stopping is good. My mind doesn't have to live on fast forward the whole time. It's okay to just be right now. Challenge by challenge, mistake by mistake, accepting to live with the tail between my legs, to ventre and embrace the dead end to see not only what is there, but what isn't.
This body has the marks of life, of living. It's covered in invisible fingerprints. What has shaped me my identity, tested my character, the story of my heart. Full of birth and death, highs and lows, love and fire; reality, in all its beautiful complexity. It testifies the privilege of life, how making it through each day is a blessing. Especially when tomorrow isn't promised.
To stretch my notion of love and acceptance beyond perfect, that's utterly terrifying.
I'm not an impeccable scoreboard or an acclaimed record.
I'm riddled with flaws, but allowing and welcoming that can be empowering too.
Because at the end of the day, all bodies are good bodies, even if we lose sight of that at the best of times.
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