Perfectly Plastic

I hate locker rooms. I never really know what to do or how to behave. It’s not that I mind nakedness; I really don’t. In fact, I think there is something symbolically freeing about being naked – something childlike and unashamed. I’ve done my fair share of skinny dipping and even topless sunbathing when the occasion allowed it. But for whatever reason, I’m extremely modest in the locker room. Maybe I’m intimidated by the perfectly sculpted naked women strutting to the showers, but plenty of the not-so-sculpted are baring it all too, so what’s my problem? I mean, I’m not hiding out in the bathroom stall or anything, but I carefully remove and replace, you know?

Sometimes I worry that I’m changing too modestly. Do I look like a prude? Do the other women think I’m hiding something? Because the only thing worse than looking like you want to flaunt your goods is looking like you're paranoid that everyone wants a glimpse. Now I know what your thinking – I’m over analyzing the whole situation and no one is actually thinking anything about whether or not I rip off my sports bra in the middle of the locker room or wait until I get to the shower. And I know you’re right. It’s probably just my narcissistic tendencies that allow me to believe I’m being judged. Or maybe it’s because – as much as I try not to – I’m doing a little judging myself.

For example, a few weeks ago, I walk into the locker room and my eyes are drawn to this tall, thin blonde who is standing in front of the mirror and blow drying her hair. She’s wearing crisp black trousers, gorgeous high heels, but not a stitch up top. I quickly avert my eyes and make my way to an available locker. I’m acutely aware of my irritation, though I’m unsure exactly why I’m annoyed. I glance over at the girl again, and this time I recognize it. Jealousy. Damn. If I had her boobs I’d probably be naked as much as possible too. I throw my bag into the locker and adjust my headphones before heading out the door. But as I make my way to the exit, I pass the skinny blonde again, and I notice something I missed before – the small bandages beneath each breast. Well no wonder they’re so damn perfect, I think to myself as I crank up Justin Timberlake on my shuffle.

As I begin my workout, I consider what it is about seeing those bandages that has made me feel a little bit better about my own less-than-perfect breasts. I guess it’s the same reason the Dove video about how ads are manipulated makes us feel better about the way we look. If the girl in the locker room has been surgically enhanced, or if that model in the magazine has been digitally altered – she’s cheating, right? And that makes her no better than me. In fact, I feel – dare I say it? – smug.

But that’s not right either. I can assume that the girl in the locker room has taken steps to alter her appearance in order to feel better about herself. And isn’t that her right? Shouldn’t I, as a feminist, applaud her decision to take control of her body, and ultimately, her self-esteem? Or does a real feminist condemn the surgery – believing it to be yet another way that our misogynistic society encourages the self-objectification of women? (And according to Gloria Steinem, or Ms. Magazine anyway, that’s exactly what a real feminist believes.) After all, shouldn’t a woman value herself (and be valued) for her brain, not her boobs?

What is it about boobs that has women of all ages, races and socioeconomic statuses running to the plastic surgeon? And it’s not just boobs, people (oh, and it’s not just women). It’s liposuction, chin lifts, injectables, nose jobs, tummy tucks…And the price and pain of these procedures are no longer deterrents. The statistics are staggering. Botox and Restylane are household names. Big Tent Books just published a children’s book called “My Beautiful Mommy” to help kids understand what their mothers are doing to themselves. It's an epidemic. I’m not condemning it, but I’m confused by it. And I’m not quite sure where I stand.

I have plenty of girlfriends who have undergone plastic surgery – some of them are reading this post right now. I don't want them to think I’m judging their decision – at least, I hope I’m not – but I can’t help but feel a little bit sad that these women - young women - went through something so painful and potentially dangerous just to feel better about the way they look. Why is it that their self-esteem is so dependent on their outward appearance? Of course, I suppose the same could be asked about me. Aren’t I the one spending hours jogging all over Joburg to feel better about the way I look? I suppose it’s not much different.

In an ideal world we would accept our physical selves exactly as we are. But what exactly does that mean? Sure, we would have no need for surgical enhancements, but would we also get rid of the concealer…the lip gloss...the Spanx…the curling iron? What about high heels? Am I less of a feminist because I feel better about myself in my Nine Wests than my Nikes? I think most women would say the same…but where do we draw the line?

I don’t have the answers. No profound conclusions today. I can’t even say without qualification that I would never undergo the beauty knife. One day I may consider having rat poison injected into the newly developed crease between my eyebrows. And yet even as I type those words, my heart hurts a little. Because I want for those things not to matter. But that’s just the naïve optimist talking, I suppose. The realist just ordered yet another jar of overpriced moisturizer off sephora.com.