Chapter 10
Cosmetic Surgery Can't Hold a Candle to Fun
"So, tell me why ya wanna have a face-lift. Ya know, I neveh would have thought you were over 40."
We met for dinner, knowing full well that both of us would be jet-lagging. We vowed to stay awake until midnight. Dinner had been going well until I casually joked about a face-lift. Why did I have to open this door? Freudians would argue that I was seeking approval.
"Thanks, I don't feel my age either. I guess that's why I've taken an interest in cosmetic surgery. I want to look a young as I feel."
"I thought you were in your late thirties. Really!"
"You don't see me in the morning. Anyway, I have given a lot of thought to cosmetic surgery. I know how they are done, how long recovery is and how much they cost."
"How much?"
"A typical face-lift for a man will cost about $4,991. Pectoral implants run about $5,500, eyelid surgery will cost about $2,942, scalp reduction about $2,776. Calf implants costs about $4,750, tummy tucks go for about $4,095. "
She smiled and pushed her hair away from her cheeks. "This lil’ trip must be settin’ you back about a facelift.
"Point taken, but a lot of people think it's worth it. People who undertake cosmetic surgery generally report satisfaction with their decision; however there is always a downside. For example, it's conceivable that two very ugly people could beautify themselves through cosmetic surgery, meet and completely fool one-another into thinking the partner is naturally beautiful. Later they have ugly children."
She laughed, "Bummer."
Once I start on a topic, I can't stop. It's an occupational hazard...after all lecturing is my profession. This was becoming a lecture and she didn't seem to mind.
"There is another downside, bad surgeons. Not everyone who calls himself a cosmetic surgeon is fully qualified to do cosmetic work. Anyone with an MD can call himself a cosmetic surgeon. Even surgeons who are certified by the American Board of Plastic Surgery can make mistakes. And, when a mistake is made, there is never a guarantee that it can be repaired. For example, cases where the patient dies."
I could tell she was staring at the wrinkles around my eyes. God, with so many things to talk about I had to bring up the age-thing. Keep talking, shift to another topic. I babbled on....
"Another downside is that it hurts. Laser re-surfacing works by vaporizing the skin. Liposuction involves sticking a vacuum cleaner under the skin and rapidly sweeping it forward and back. Body sculpting involves inserting silicone forms under the skin or muscles. Facelifts involve cutting away excess skin and closing the gap with stitches. A nose job generally involves breaking the bridge of the nose. Recovery often takes months."
She smiled coyly, "Ah know a little 'bout this...you might say, ahm not all that ah appeah. No, it's moh like, all that appeahs isn't me."
"You telling me you had plastic surgery."
"Yep, in two places."
"Those aren't real?" I said nodding toward her grapefruit shaped breasts.
"Real me and real silicon. Graduation present from mah parents."
I leaned back in my chair and stared unabashedly at her breasts. "Now, that is an unusual college graduation present."
"High school."
"Oh...you started early. By the time you get my age you will look your age."
She started to smile, then chuckle and then we both started to laugh.
It was then that I gave her my little surprise. While working my through college, I had tried lots of things to make money without really working. My most successful venture had been doing caricatures at parties and malls. It was a gift from the great comic in the sky. Art had come so easy to me that I never really put much value in it. It was a gift with no strings attached, and one I used more to entertain myself and meet women than anything else. Yet, during my college years it had acquired a monetary value, and I used it whenever I needed tuition or bread. Now as an older man, I used this skill primarily for entertainment. With Lisa Marie it had a different function. An older man has to show off in ways different from the young and virile. And, so when I first got to my hotel, I had done a caricature of her. It was rather good, so I thought. I portrayed her in a cowboy hat and cowboy boots with salaciously long heels.
I handed her the cartoon concealed in the manila envelope that I had hijacked from the front desk of the hotel. “Here’s a little something for you. Don’t open it until you are alone. I want it to be a surprise.” I figured that if she liked it, she’d feel obligated to call me, maybe see me again. It was a gift, but it also a kind of social insurance. With a curious smile, she accepted my gift and slipped it into her bag.
This was Vienna, and the waltz was still popular. We'd been listening to a small ensemble play waltzes throughout the evening and watching different couples perform their version of the waltz. She had jokingly remarked that the waltz was to the Viennese what the two-step was to Texans. It was then that I learned she loved to dance. And, it was also then that I promised to dance with her before the evening was over.
I love to dance, but the necessity of having a partner keeps my dancing to a minimum, but no need to mention that. So, in spite of the jet lag and flyers fatigue, we decided it was time to dance. As I took her hand and worked our way toward the dance floor, I leaned into her ear and said, "One of the advantages of being my age, I know how to do all of the old dances that are becoming popular again."
She smiled and pulled me onto the floor, "Ahm counting on it."
She moved smoothly, she had natural rhythm and a natural sensuousness that made her a natural on the dance floor. We danced until our tired bodies demanded rest. We reluctantly left the restaurant and walked out into the cool drizzle of a Vienna summer. I hailed a cab, and dropped her off at her hotel. She gave me a hug and just before walking away, slipped a little pin, a dancing Armadillo with a cowboy hat, in my lapel. “Here’s a lil’ somethun to remember our evening by. It’s a good luck charm, wear it while yer in Vienna—for me.” With that she dashed into her hotel. I was remarkably happy, but exhausted. My ears were slightly ringing from the music, and my knees and bad ankle were aching, but that was okay, since I was walking on air. I returned to my own hotel, collapsed and slept until my body thought it was morning. I had slept a total of 2 hours. Yes, it was morning—in Sacramento, but not in Vienna. My jet-lagging body hadn’t caught on.