Just a Pinch of Violence
"...and you've got some in here, and here..."
"Yes, I know. I know I pretty much have fat everywhere. I've had a big butt, big hips, and big thighs since Jr. High. I'm not worried about that. It's my stomach."
"We can take off everything I can pinch."
And she could pinch more than I wanted to see. She smiled at me and said, "Well, these areas are very doable."
"These areas" were my upper and lower abdomen. I'd had enough. Working out consistently for 2 1/2 years, eating healthy MOST of the time, and I still carry an extra 30 lbs. from a medication I had to take for 8 years. The cost to my health for taking the medication was something called Metabolic Syndrome, a series of symptoms that include the gaining of belly fat--something I'd never had to contend with, even after 3 children. I have been able to eradicate all of the other symptoms but one: my belly. And there it was, getting pinched between the medical assistant's gloved fingers. And I was done. Done, done, done. I wanted laser liposuction. I figured, it got on there because of something medical, then I should be able to take it OFF with something medical.
I mean...right?
I watched her face as she spoke to me. An older woman in her late fifties, it was clear she'd had "work" done. I can always spot it--the plump lips with the shiny, preternatural skin that looks like it has a clear film of grease on it. But that wasn't going to be me. No, I would age with grace; but the belly fat? It had to go.
So I listened to her as she explained, in detail, about the procedure.
"...and then we make the tiny incisions here, here and here and insert small plastic tubes..."
My head was reeling.
I had always told myself and others that I would never have anything fake about me, with the exception of a clear gel over my already existing short nails. My natural nails split or break really close to my skin and as a painter with my hands in water or chemicals all of the time, they need protection. The gel coating keeps them from breaking so I'm not contending with painful fingers all of the time. That, and I like how they look. But that was it. Plastic surgery? NEVER.
Yet there I sat, listening to the medical assistant tell me what they were going to do to my body.
"Then we put in another cannula, and that liquefies the fat and removes it, and after, we insert another cannula that has a laser on it. That will sear the inside and tighten up the skin and melt more fat..."
I tried to hold her gaze, but I couldn't. My eyes were tearing up and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why.
"...you wear the pads for 48 hours as they catch all of the blood and drainage that comes out of the openings in your skin..."
I was acutely aware of my husband, sitting next to me, holding my hand. He had been so supportive. "Do the research," he had said, "and if it's safe, we'll make it happen. If it's really what you want."
I thought about how he looks at me when I undress, when we shower, when we make love. His eyes don't rove my body and find imperfection; he only sees a sexy, beautiful woman, he only feels desire. No, I was sitting in that office for me, and me alone.
"...and you'll need two compression garments, one that you will wear 24/7 for one whole month. You'll be put on an antibiotic after the surgery, and you'll come back the next day so we can remove the second compression garment and then we let you take a shower to get clean. Then we take more pictures..."
I nodded my head. Yes, I understood what she was saying. Yes, that seemed reasonable. But my mind was screaming.
"Do you have any questions for me?" she asked.
I finally brought my eyes up to meet hers. "None that you can answer," I said.
We thanked her for her time, and I couldn't get out of there fast enough. By the time I was off of the elevator, I was openly weeping.
My husband had his arm around me, asking me in twenty different ways what was wrong, why was I so upset? I didn't know how to answer...but then, I did.
"It-it just seems so...violent," I began, tears streaming down my face. "I mean, so invasive, so sickening, so unnatural so...wrong."
I got in the car, my dreams of an instant flat stomach dashed. Yet, I had made my decision before I stepped foot out of that office. There was no way I was going to put my body through that kind of trauma, that kind of violence.
We drove in silence and I cried. I wondered what was wrong with me? Millions of women do that kind of thing and much more, every year. But I couldn't do it. Like an unruly child, my fat isn't something I want around, but I couldn't violate it, hurt it, hurt...myself. I realized that I would have to really hate myself--truly HATE myself, to put myself through what that shiny-faced woman had described to me. And I came to the conclusion that I don't. For all of my complaining, my own pinching, my own glare in the mirror, I simply don't hate myself that much.
Many women have had cosmetic surgery, and they are happy they did it. They feel nothing but relief, joy and an increase in self-esteem when they healed up and went on with their lives. And they may not have hated themselves. There's a myriad of reasons why they went through with it. I don't begrudge any of them. I'm glad that they have no regrets. And to the women who want to have it done? I don't judge them at all. Cheers to them, I say.
But for me...for me...it's just not...for me.
"According to evolutionary biology," my husband had said earlier in the day, "fat on women is ornamental. It evolved because it was considered ornamental. Like colorful plumage on a bird. " Indeed, according to researchers, the searches for curvy women, BBW and mature women still rank as some of the highest searches on the Internet. But none of that really matters. What matters is this: if my husband can love me this way, then why can't I?
I will continue to work out, continue to eat healthy, and continue to look in the mirror knowing that, for everything I am, I am me--belly and all, thighs and all...extra "plumage" and all.
I came home and threw the folder the medical assistant had given me in the trash.
The whole thing was, for lack of a better term, a spiritual experience, an awakening for me. I realized love myself as-is.
It took a little reality check for me to figure that out.
