I was reading Nietzsche’s Man and Superman the other day when the doorbell rang. Well, okay, it wasn’t actually Nietzsche (thank God for spell check). It was, let’s say, the latest John Grisham novel. Alright, I was flipping through the lingerie ads in the Sears catalogue—the main point is that the doorbell rang, and I got up to answer it, okay?
Standing outside my door were a couple of kids from the local elementary school. This being Vancouver, they were raising money for their competitive yoga team by selling coupons for half-price Botox treatments at a neighbourhood cosmetic surgery clinic. Naturally, I did what I always do when I have solicitors at my door, which is release the wolf hounds.
Sturm and Drang are actually quite harmless, but their snarling and growling does tend to get the instinctual survival mechanism going, especially with the little tykes. It’s truly amazing the merchandise they’ll drop as they take off down the street. Suffice it to say that I haven’t had to fork over cold hard cash for Girl Guide cookies for quite some time.
Looking through the stack of coupon books they left on my doorstep, the wheels began to turn. From what I’d been hearing, having a nose job or a liposuction these days has become something of a status symbol, like buying a new car or a pair of designer lederhosen.
I myself have always been on the cutting edge of lifestyle. For instance, I was making fashion statements in the area of bum cleavage back when it was a phenomenon known as “plumber’s butt”. I was also the very first among my friends to display multiple body piercings (albeit mostly accidental).
I have to confess, though, that I was caught by surprise by the whole “metrosexual” thing. The idea of urban males in touch with their sensitive, feminine side, displaying aesthetic savvy in clothes and household furnishings, spending time and money on fitness clubs, skin care products, cosmetic surgery—who knew? It took me by surprise that I even had a sensitive feminine side. It turns out that my hypothalamus had been illegally subletting a portion of my right cerebral hemisphere to her, along with my creative, intuitive, morally responsible and self-disciplined sides. Fortunately, they’d never disturbed the neighbours by calling too much attention to themselves.
Anyway, I digress. The more I thought about it, the more I began to see that this make-over racket might be a pretty lucrative gig. The first thing to do, I thought, is to investigate getting myself licensed. Being a realist, I did anticipate some problems in this area, owing to the fact that I have no conventional medical training, or high school diploma. Apparently the College of Physicians can get a little sticky in that area.
No problemo, though, because I quickly Googled up a correspondence medical school in the Bahamas that offers a distance-ed cosmetic surgery program. As I write this article, the textbooks are winging their way to me. Six weeks from now, I’ll be ready to hang my shingle out the door and start inflating those lips, pecs and foreheads to whatever PSI my clients request. Hell, I’ll make them look like the friggin’ Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbuster’s if they pay me enough. The doctor, as they say, is in.