He takes me to a room where we talk about my "fitness goals" (to not feel like an out-of-shape wuss) and diet. Then comes the awkward part. The trainer takes my measurements — including, for some reason, the circumference of my neck — which is actually just as embarrassing as having my breasts photographed. It's odd to have a complete stranger measuring my thighs. I'm silently grateful I shaved my legs. These appointments are starting to feel like a series of way-too-personal first dates.
After we're done talking, we get to the hard stuff: the workout. I'm in decent shape, so I expected to be able to perform the exercises without much of a struggle. I was wrong. He broke me in easily enough — lunges across the gym a few times — but by the last set of the last exercise, my kind feelings for the guy had evaporated.
Landon Armstrong
Landon Armstrong
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As I was sweating through some draconian move I don't know the name of (it had me bouncing on and off an elevated platform, holding a medicine ball) I glanced up at the TV. An ad for Lipodissolve was on. I've never really been a proponent for the easy way out, but after half an hour with this guy, 126 shots to the thighs didn't sound so bad.
Of course, by the end of the session, it was time to talk money. And, of course, it's out of my range: One session is $70, and 24 sessions cost $1,200. And he recommends I come twice a week, to start.
I'm a little sad I can't sign up — I have no doubt this guy would get me in great shape. Plus, I'm starting to feel bad, getting to know these people, using their professional time and then crapping out on the follow-through. Luckily, I've gotten good at the "I have to talk to my dad" excuse.
The next day, I wake up cursing the trainer. I can hardly move my legs. I wish he'd had me stretch. I'm sore and swollen for the next few days. Unfortunately, there's no time to wallow in my aching muscular pain. I have another doctor's appointment to go to. This time, we're talking rhinoplasty.
A few words about my nose: It's extremely cute. When I mentioned to someone I was thinking about a nose job, his response was, "Why? You have a perfect nose."
And it's true. People get nose jobs to get my nose. But it is crooked (though most people don't notice until I force them to stare at it for a while). To be honest, I'd never change it, even if someone else was willing to pay for the $8,000 surgery.
I booked my appointment with a doctor known around town for his facial work. He does nothing but reconstruct and change faces, and from what I hear, he's the best. I figured if anyone could talk me into hating my nose, it would be this guy.
At his office, I grab pamphlets for every procedure they offer: nasal surgery, eyelid lift, chin implant, and so on. I laugh to myself when I see the chin-implant guide.
"Who would get a chin implant?" I ask in my head. "That is so, so weird."
I'm picturing an army of large-breasted Jay Lenos.
I also grab the brochure for permanent makeup. I'm slightly disturbed by the answer provided under the heading, "Does it hurt?"
"Most people find the method very relaxing," it says.
I'm not sure how that's possible. Having eyeliner tattooed on seems like pretty much the least relaxing thing I can think of.
When I'm called into the doctor's office, I'm offered water and chocolate. I decline the candy. My legs are still aching from my session with the trainer, and all I can think about is my calorie intake.
I didn't get to meet the breast implant or Lipodissolve doctors face-to-face, and this is the first plastic surgeon I've shaken hands with. He is exactly what you expect a plastic surgeon to be: good-looking, strong handshake, polite but cocky. He's Christian from Nip/Tuck.
We talk about my nose, and he agrees it's crooked. He thinks he can fix it by breaking it in several places and realigning the bones around it. He informs me that the angle between the bottom of my nose and my lips is perfect — it's the exact shape they strive for during surgery.
But before I can gloat about the superb angles of my face, the doc informs me I need a chin implant.
What?!
Since my teenage years, I've carefully recorded my faults. If pressed, I can tell you everything I don't like about myself, from my eyebrows down to my long second toe. But my chin never made the list.
The doctor tells me it's weak, and an implant will make my profile much stronger. He illustrates this on the computer. I sort of see what he's talking about in the "before" picture, but I think the "after" implant picture makes me look a little witchy. (And it would cost about $2,500 — a discounted price for getting it with the nose job.)
The "after" picture of my nose doesn't look any different. It still looks crooked to me.
