Like so many others, Irene left town this week. She left behind one of her golden oldies from April 15, 1993, for you to enjoy again.
As the picture cleared after flipping on the television, my eyes beheld one of the most gruesome sights I’d seen since the showing of Arctic seal cubs being clubbed. Complete with blood, a doctor was demonstrating the latest advance in plastic surgery: fat redistribution, where it is taken from where there’s too much and put where there’s too little.
Spellbound, I sat down, large pan within reach in case I threw up.
Using an instrument that resembled my old bicycle pump, only with a clear tube, the doctor was plunging in and out of a draped hip, sucking out fat, which would then be injected somewhere else in the drapee’s body — in this case, her breasts, where she felt she’d been cheated.
In this way, the doctor explained, a woman with saddlebags or thunder thighs or a bully behind could pare down there and transfer the fat to another place without fear of the body’s rejecting it. It’s not a foreign substance being introduced but her very own manufactured fat.
When the supersyringe was full of yellow liquid that looked, I must admit, like melted butter, the doctor pumped it into little slits under her breasts, and voila! Instant boobs.
Have women, in their never-ending quest for the perfect body, come to this, not only changing but rearranging their parts?
Oh, I could go for maybe a simple dimple transplant — you know, take just two from the backs of my legs and put one on each cheek — but nothing so drastic as what I saw being demonstrated.
Extruded self-fat can also be injected to fill up bags under the eyes or give that full, fat-lip look that’s so popular.
This latest wrinkle in cosmetic surgery sounds and probably looks good on the surface, but digging a little deeper I foresee rejection problems of another kind.
Maybe a woman is having all this restructuring done to please herself, but chances are there’s a man in the picture someplace. She has either got one and wants to keep him, or she wants to attract one.
Say some night they’re all lovey-dovey. While caressing her tenderly in the throes of romantic fervor, his fingers move across her heaving chest, linger awhile, move on … then come back for another feel.
“Say, didn’t these used to be your hips?”
Trying to divert him, she says, “Kiss me, you fool.”
Acquiescing, he plants one on her … only to stop midsmooch and gaze at her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Need some air?”
“I’m confused,” he confesses. “I feel like I’m kissing your thighs.”
“Silly boy. Look into my eyes, and tell me what you see.”
He looks but can’t bring himself to tell her what he thinks he sees. Either his vision is fogged with passion, his eyes are playing tricks on him or the flushed pink cheeks beneath her baby blues look an awful lot like the ones he’s used to seeing peek out of her bikini.
He’s outta there, baby. Now that’s rejection.
In our eternal-youth-oriented culture, movie stars and those whose livelihoods depend on their looks have had their birthday suits altered so often they probably don’t have any of their original parts left to repair, let alone redistribute. I swear Geraldo is wearing Michael Jackson’s old nose.
As for that doctor on TV, he’s probably getting rich living off the fat of the land. Not mine, though, thank you very much.
I’ve faced and accepted the fact that if you live long enough, everything sags, drags and falls apart — with or without a doctor’s help. Quite frankly, I’m in such a state of deterioration I can hardly take yes for an answer.
I’m fast approaching the age where my mind might wander and my hearing might disappear, but for now, dear doctor, my fat is staying where it’s at.
Irene Haskins is a Tribune columnist. Her email address is ihaskins@ columbiatribune.com.
Reach Irene Haskins at 573-815-1721 or e-mail email@example.com.
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