Confessions of a model-ed mind

During a Sunday lunch, a young woman proudly displayed her Caesarian section to a group of friends. She wanted to show not only her scars but also the stretch marks and discoloration–the badges of honor–that came with pregnancy. Up went the shirt and out from its hiding place was displayed a generous blubber of mottled grayish brown flesh, flushed with body hair and slashed with rippling white and withered patches. The woman’s friends nodded in approval of the physical signs of her journey. I grabbed for the nearest glass of water and took a sudden interest in the nearby ficus.

I am not proud of my reaction. I, too, have had Caesarian sections. As a mother, I understand the selflessness one is capable of when bearing and giving birth to one’s children. I also am the mother who had a dermatologist present during my operations to ensure that my torso area would receive first aid! Such precautionary measures may admittedly seem ridiculous to most people, but when one has had a total immersion into the aesthetic pool for over two decades, it would seem like the only logical step to take.

The possession of beauty (as in all things intoxicatingly temporal) can be for most people, a blessing that quickly spirals into an addiction. Beauty is the magic pass that opens doors, enchants the outside world and makes you believe you truly are a superior creature. People are drawn and mesmerized simply by gazing at your appearance. You have done nothing to earn such adulation. You simply have to exist in your present physical state and the world applauds.

Alas! All human beings never remain in their present state. Change is inevitable and as the aging process continues, this potent elixir quickly rears its ugly head. Beauty–a possession so intertwined with youth–quickly turns into Sauron’s Ring. It becomes–the precious! Each sag and wrinkle resounds like the progressive beating of drums in a Death March. For those who have felt the utter magnitude of beauty’s power, the gradual distancing of youth signifies a form of withdrawal from a drug so potent. And as a result, one’s identity is thrown into a state of flux.

I rarely meet a woman who works out in the gym for health reasons. Health be damned, she is there to lose pounds! It is only after constant reassurances that weights will not bulk her up will she agree to pick up a five-pound dumbbell. Most women have no regard for the endorphins that are suppose to rush through one’s system after a thorough aerobics class. The only high they seek is the satisfaction of bidding farewell to over-staying inches from their bellies, thighs and arms. Plastic surgery, a previously unheard of form of bodily invasion has fast become as common a procedure as a parlor hair perm. Youth! Youth! Youth! Physical aesthetic optimums!

The higher one has reached in the aesthetic totem pole, the harder one falls. Fashion icons, though they profusely deny it, are constantly pressured to maintain their image to the ever-scrutinizing public. Surely they cannot deny that one can only pull the ruse of youthful beauty to a certain point? But most remain in a state of denial, insisting that somehow, their evolution will be different. Being an attractive 40, 50 or 60-year-old is not enough for them. To the fashion diva, there are only three types of women in the world: Beach Babe, District Attorney and Driving Miss Daisy. So darlings, slather up on tanning lotion because the icon desires to be a beach babe forever! With this mindset, it becomes evident that in identifying solely with her beauty, the addicted has neglected the nurturing of her inner self. She has contracted the Marilyn Monroe Syndrome Filipina style!

I watch the new mother return her withered tire to her jeans. Around her are women who share her lack of vanity. Theirs are simple lives, uneventful experiences, and theirs is the constant role of unthreatened audience forever glancing at aesthetic players who are forever pressured to live up to adulation.

Acceptance and the appreciation of one’s many blessings are signs of inner maturity. At the end of the day, these virtues see us through our golden years with the gifts of a peaceful mind; gracious demeanor and a centered self. We should place good health rather than good looks as our ultimate physical priority. We should realize that we are more than the tissue-filled vessel that houses our spirit. We are the gift within and not the box and wrapper.

Maturity is the ability to discover beauty beyond what the eyes can see. It is the recognition of people’s character, spirit and the nobility that live within everyone’s heart. It is the celebration of one’s creativity, wisdom and humor. To all these ideals I am a novitiate. It would truly be a rite of passage to one day lift my shirt and display a flaccid ton of blotched flesh with calmness and certainty. Only then would I say that I have rid myself of my addiction and have joined the world of the aesthetically unshackled and un-obsessed. Till that day of enlightenment arrives however, I shall continue with my daily trek on the treadmill, my regular crunches and visualize exposing a lean six-pack instead of a flaccid torso! Mea culpa!