Christy's Elbow & Drew's Chin
Episode 03:13:2023 - Prompt: Perfection
Where perfection took me…
In an interview with an 80’s/90’s supermodel, I don’t recall if it was Linda Evangelista or Christy Turlington, the model was asked the following:
“Is there any part of your body you don’t like?”
Perhaps it was an attempt to draw humility. An opportunity for us to relate to a supermodel’s self-imposed critique - the one thing she can’t stand when she looks in the mirror or sees herself on the cover of Vogue and Sports Illustrated.
“I hate my elbows,” she said.
“The skin wrinkles when my arm is straight”
I watched the interview as a teen with untamable curly hair and a Streisand-aspiring nose, but the supermodel’s Achilles elbow didn’t make me feel bad.
The absurdity of her confession let me off the hook.
If this model, who was nothing like me, was held up to us girls as ideal, I could move on to other concerns… like rebellion, cutting school, graffiti boys, and thrift shopping.
Then a real punch in the face put me in the hot seat of perfection.
Why I was punched in the face is a longer story.
In the movie of the person who punched me, I deserved it.
In my movie, her ex/boyfriend deserved it.
I was eighteen. A senior in high school. At a punk show.
Afterwards, we all went to the Tavern for last call. She, my antagonist, called my name, punched me, and quick-exited. Rather than go to the emergency room or put ice on my face, I went to a friend’s house, smoked a joint, and went to sleep.
My mom was not happy about this at all. She wanted me to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to make more of a deal about it than it was. That was my argument, and I stood firm.
A week later, I couldn’t breathe. An X-ray concluded my septum was severely deviated. If I had gone to the ER the night of the event, they would have used splints to pack my nose for proper healing and to prevent long-term damage.
Now… I needed corrective surgery.
In Tig Notaro’s stand-up, she says she made so many jokes about her small “boobs” over the years that they overheard her and decided to kill her. I’m in no way comparing septo-rhinoplasty to a double mastectomy. I’m acknowledging Tig’s truthful humor about how bodies have a way of fulfilling prophecies.
My nose came into prominent development when I was about twelve. I had never taken serious steps towards getting a nose job, but like Tig with her “boobs”, I wasn’t very kind when speaking about my nose.
The surgeon presented two profiles: mine and the perfect version.
A live video feed went into a computer to create hyperreal images of my face in profile. He explained the surgery: break the bones, correct the septum, and reset it. He also wanted to take down “some of that bump” and presented a ski slope version of my nose.
“No, no, no. I don’t want that,” I said.
He looked over at my mother’s classic, straight nose and replicated it on the screen. That I could do, although I would no longer look like my dad, something I miss now that he’s gone. Then, the doctor began to add some chin.
“This is the perfect proportion of nose to chin,” he said.
Since I was going to be under anesthesia, why not get a little chin implant?
My mother and I shook our heads.
“Look at Drew Barrymore’s profile,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
For more than thirty years, I’ve lived with a nose that isn’t mine. And any time I talk down about a part of my body that isn’t living up to some idealized standard, I stop myself. If I had never been punched, I’m sure I would have grown into my nose and loved it, as I began to love myself over time.
YOUR TURN: Consider PERFECTION through the lens of truth. Since Friday, I’ve thought about stamps on envelopes, exotic recipes, the nail I lost last week, my grandfather’s comb, sunspots, and grammar.
Share your story in 150 - 200 words (basically, the section in the surgeon’s office at 160 words).
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Happy writing!
Perusing the menu, I picked out three possibilities: either the soft chimichanga (chicken), the lunch-sized fajitas (chicken), or the tostadas - you guessed it, chicken. I wasn't that hungry, so I chose the entree that didn't come with rice and beans. "The tostadas, chicken," I said to the waitress. "Perfect," she replied. Perfect? What's perfect about chicken tostadas? Would beef have been perfect, too, or the chimichanga or the fajitas?
Children are schooled in perfection from a very early age: physical appearance (girls especially), grades and test scores, athletic or artist performance, job evaluations. And you know what? We always fall short and, if you're like me, tend to beat ourselves up about it. "I should have tried harder." Often we compare ourselves to others, only to discover there's always someone more attractive, smarter, and more accomplished in whatever we might do.
In The Way of Perfection, Teresa of Avila writes, "Let the truth be in your hearts, as it will be if you practice meditation, and you will see clearly what love we are bound to have for our neighbors." Perfection, a way of being. So, before we left the restaurant, I said to the waitress, "Thank you for your service, I enjoyed the tostadas very much." And that was the truth in my heart.
I have always disliked my hair. It's very fine, thin, and straight, though it was auburn (that, I liked) when I was in high school. I hated all I had to do to make it even semi-ok - let's not talk about perfection. It resisted the coaxings of hot roller and curling iron alike. I had to plaster it with hair spray to get it to maintain any semblance of style.
Adding insult to injury, it got even thinner as I approached peri-menopause. When I finally decided I needed a wig, there were already two balding spots that my doctor told me looked like alopecia. She said the hair would not grow back.
I've worn wigs since 2014, meaning eight years of good-hair days. Ah, perfection.