Because my life is a bit of a snooze-fest lately and because I'd rather regale you with tales from my epic past as an administrative assistant for a famed Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, I'll give you inquiring minds some thoughts on my sordid bhills chop shop past. Warning: this post took an unexpected turn for the earnest. Hey, I can't control what my brain communicates to my hands...
I took a year off between college and law school mainly because, I'll be honest, I was too busy dicking around my last year of college to even consider my future. I dreamed of traveling the world in this year or working somewhere really cool or at least partying a lot and spending some months working on a cruise ship or something. Cold reality set in: my rich gay dads were not going to bankroll me, I was not willing to just stay at home for this whole year, there would be no world travel, I needed a job.
Fortunately, a close friend from study abroad was getting ready to go to med school and after taking a job at UCLA medical's neuroscience center, where they asked her to do the unthinkable for an ivy educated woman: data entry... she quit and found this job working for a plastic surgeon and she was just about to leave. I slipped cozily into her old position: managing charts filled with polaroids of the before and after breast augmentations and chin implants of the celebs I loved, labeling vats of liposucked fat to go to pathology, and wheeling drugged up/vomiting pornstars, models and trophy wives out a back door to where their drivers waited to whisk them away to a cush recovery center where they would have 24/7 nurses and massages while they de-puffed.
This life was, as you can imagine, a whole new world for me. Aging stars would turn down their Tom Ford sunglasses to look at me and remark "gorgeous! just lovely" but I knew it was only my coveted youthfulness that enthralled them. I got to sit around most days surrounded by beautiful art, reading Vanity Fair and scanning pictures of Scumberly Stewart's pre-op photos to send to my girlfriends, sometimes stashing a few sample ambiens for the night ahead and using the samples of face creams I will never be able to afford myself.
What stands out to me most about that year though are the women I met doing that job. Contrary to what my socially awkward personality suggests, I love pretty much everyone who has two matching chromosomes and I got so much out of my relationships with some of Dr. X's clients. The women of bhills and those who are able to fly to bhills to have the best doctors do their work are stunning creatures. Even more gorgeous than the models and famous actresses were the ladies of leisure - kept women who spent all their time doing pilates, shopping, getting facials etc. These women along with the high powered jet-setting executives who made their own money all shared a common trait: they were unhappy with themselves.
I could go on and on about how our culture has damaged us. I think The Beauty Myth is real and I believe that media portrayals of women and our cultural obsession with looks is a way to subjugate women by demeaning us, weakening us in both our personal and social value, and then preying on us as consumers... but then if we succumb to what the culture tells us about beauty, is it ever possible to actually feel beautiful?
So many times I saw 19-20 year old girls who were jaw-dropping, air brushed babes walk in and it killed me to know they were changing their unbelievably perfect bodies or faces. I died thinking of it, I had to physically restrain myself from guffawing when young actresses told me they wanted a consult about lipo, chin implants and getting a larger set of implants. And worse, seeing them come back for follow up visits as they healed and realized that they still felt bad about themselves, that their long awaited surgery hadn't really changed their worlds like they thought it would.
Like most women of my age and social background, I'm no stranger to feeling insecure, ugly, chubby, etc. but to see that even THESE almost inhuman 10s with tons of money and fantastic clothes and perfect everything were rankling inside with shame, feeling like their looks were everything and they looked terrible was a wake up call. I am not the picture of confidence nor can I pretend to LOVE my looks, but I understand very deeply that happiness and satisfaction have to come from within. Being beautiful means nothing if you are sad, and being obsessed with becoming beautiful will make you sad. AND YOU ALREADY ARE BEAUTIFUL and you were to begin with, that's either a crying shame or yours to own - you decide.
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