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Musing on Sydney's news
27 August 2003
Are the lines on your face the line in the sand?
Today the SMH today ran an observation piece called Fascination of the Fake with the rider, "From tans to orgasms, the whole world seems happy to fake it. We've got bosoms that don't jiggle when we run for buses, hair like Rapunzel, and records that supersede the songs they bastardise".
Firstly, I want to declare a personal interest in the natural vs artificial debate. My boobies don't jiggle (much) when I run, which is actually pretty handy.
Making this upfront declaration of interest will hopefully save me from the feared fate of being slapped on the wrist by John Howard as happened to Wilson Tuckey recently after he abused his position in an attempt to harass police out of fining his son. Tony Abbott, too, was lucky enough to escape a nasty wrist slap after effectively bankrolling Saint Pauline Hanson's prosecution.
But I'm the careful type, so I'm 'fessing up. I got sick of being a flattie so I indulged in the Silicone Solution. I don't regret it one bit either.
We've all seen the eye-rolling and huffing and puffing about how the superficial people of today are pumping their tired, wrinkled skin with botox and collagen. Not to mention our avid tut-tutting about invasive cosmetic surgery perpetrated by manipulative doctors on misguided baby boomers with too much money.
Some of us find it a bit freaky that others would be consider undergoing expensive and painful surgery to "disfigure"our bodies for some dubious gain. Many think it's vain and stupid. Men are usually the harshest judges, of course. Especially overweight, scruffy, sun-damaged or unattractive men who smell like a locker room (which, of course, is why locker rooms smell the way they do).
Of course, these guys have got better things to do with their time and money, don't they? Like getting wasted, playing with cars, gambling, watching sport or gawking at airbrushed pubescent girls in various states of undress, preferably with (silicon) boosies the size of watermelons.
After all, if men want to find a partner they can have a head like the back end of a hippo for all it matters, just as long as they make a decent amount of folding stuff and have a plastic card that never runs out. Jamie Packer need never be single.
So let's get to the crux of the issue. A man's "currency" in the relationship meat market is power and money. A woman's currency is her beauty and ability to laugh at men's jokes without cracking too many of her own. Of course, these roles are converging more in the Noughties, with super-women, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, metrosexuals and house-husbands, but at this stage most of us still dance to the beat of our genes.
So how can we blame a middle-aged woman watching her partner salivating over gym-built, silicone nymphettes on television for trying to recapture some of her former good looks?
There is a line of medical (and religious) wowserism that sees the body as some sacred thing that must not be tampered with (although priests seem pretty good at tampering with other people's bodies, if you read the papers).
These Holy Joes shudder at the mention of ciggies, junk food, booze, couch-potato-TV-internet surfing lifestyles as though such things are the spawn of Satan. They accuse anyone who doesn't place every life activity in the context of body preservation of wantonly placing an untenable burden on the health system. As for cosmetic surgery, how can the medical system conscionably cater to some vain rich-bitch while others are waiting for organ transplants?
Some decry the artificiality of modern life and wush we would return to the roots, to natural life. This school of thought makes unlikely allies of selected doctors, religious fundamentalists (of any stripe), tree-huggers, indigenous people and naturalists (of course). A a motley crew if ever I've seen one.
However, not all that is natural is good. Killing. Power struggles. Chauvinism. Disease. Strokes. Mosquitoes. Flies. Tapeworms. Cockroaches. Poison. Prickles. Drought. Flood. Heatwaves. Hurricanes. Pimples. Body odour. To name but a few.
The fact is that the whole point of being human is to be artificial. If we're not artificial, then what on earth separates us from other animals? I mean, washing with soap is artificial but who would argue with that ... apart from a handful of Poms and ferals? Washing machines are artificial. Makeup is artificial. Haircuts and shaving. Technology. Music. Religion. Furniture. Television. Computers. Buildings. Medicine. Weapons. Plastic. Books. Clothes. The list goes on.
So where do we draw the line? At what point do we say artificiality is inappropriate?
The answer is, the line is extremely fuzzy, a bit like a politician's version of the truth. Cloning, genetic engineering, robotics, plastic surgery. We are reshaping ourselves in our preferred image. There has been speculation that if there are aliens out there who are more evolved than we are, they will probably be cyborgs - at least half robot (think Arnie ... before he puts on his Terminator suit).
We've been tampering with our bodies since Adam had his first tattoo. Some would say that, in doing this, we are tampering with the Will of God. That we were created a certain way because that's what He (always a "He") wants.
However, even the Bible says it's okay to mold the body into a form that we feel will help us function better. To quote Matthew 5: "If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire".
So if you're bogged down in the mire of crappy self-esteem or depression because you aren't how you wish to be, why not do a little tweaking to make you a happier, nicer person? If you do it right, you can then just get on with life instead of wallowing around in some navel-gazing mire, trying to "rise above it". Yes, there are medical risks. But then again, many things in life are risky and each time we face something that's not a sure thing we have to make a cost-benefit analysis.
Of course it would be better if some all-powerful cognitive therapist could help us reach beyond such superficialities, but cognitive therapists don't find you partners or get people to treat you better. Ask a person with a harelip or other deformity if they fancy a spot of cognitive therapy to get over their "hangups". Ok, this is the thin edge of the wedge but it's all a matter of degree.
There's also the small matter that all-powerful cognitive therapists can cost even more than cosmetic surgery (and it takes up a lot more precious time).
Some of us forget that we're all at different stages in our personal journeys. For example, maybe I wasn't ready for the lesson of self-acceptance over other-acceptance when I paid a surgeon to put the "B" into my boobs? Since then, I've learnt and achieved lots of other things, rather than having this annoying cloud hanging over my head. Not that I'm a plastic surgery junkie because, believe me, it doesn't tickle. It's more a matter of, "Ok, I like my boobs now", enjoying the way various partners admire my enhanced protuberances, and then getting on with the rest of my life.
The flipside of all this is the media's obsession with perfect physical specimens. A lot of us would love to see more normal-looking people on telly. Big noses. Bad skin. Big bums. Flabby arms. Cellulite.
Kids with eating disorders want to emulate their most admired supermodel and some teenagers who haven't finished growing get implants. The dark side is the Jocelyn Wilderstein and Michael Jackson syndrome, where the surgery is so extreme their faces go funny (sort of the cosmetic surgery version of extreme sports).
So the boring answer is - as always - that the truth of the matter lies in that huge grey area residing somewhere in the middle of the Bell Curve - moderation. Personal modifications in themselves aren't bad as such but it can be overdone. As is always the case, too much of a good thing is bad, be it surgery, food, booze or sex (if you doubt the last, think of Bob Crane from Hogan's Heroes whose life was ruined by sex addiction).
By the same token, too little of a good thing is just as bad, and that's why my old A-cup bras found their way into St Vinnies.
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