Pimp My Bod

As I sit in the examining room waiting for him to enter, some crappy pop star is singing about releasing your inhibitions and feeling rain upon your skin.

This is what too many plastic surgery consultations can do to a girl.

The doctor comes in and I ask what he thinks about Lipodissolve. He practically jumps out of his chair. Apparently, this is a touchy subject among surgeons.

"Lipodissolve is a compound previously used to dissolve gallstones. Someone decided to see what happens when they inject it into the skin," he says. I can tell from the gallstone reference, he doesn't think highly of the procedure. "They get results, but it's very limited. Plastic surgeons aren't doing it because it's not proven. I know surgeons who have done it to themselves to see, and they had no results but an extreme amount of pain."

Okay. No Lipodissolve. We settle on traditional liposuction and possible breast implants. He tells me the recovery period for lipo is about two weeks and that I will have to wear a "garment" during that time. He says it's like bike shorts, but every time he says the word "garment," I'm picturing Mormon wedding underpants. Hot.

He glosses over the painful part, but I've done my homework. If I were to get the procedure, he would make several incisions in my thighs and insert an instrument that digs the fat out and sends it shooting out of my body via a tube. It's not as invasive as other surgeries, but it's nothing to take lightly. Some women have bruising up and down their legs for weeks.

Now it's time for him to take a look at what I've got, and what he'll be "fixing." He sends in his assistant to bring me some "clothes" to put on. The panties are especially humiliating — they're made out of paper and have only a string of elastic holding them together. I'm not sure why I have to wear them because you can see my legs just fine in my own underwear, but I decide not to argue.

On her way out, the assistant tells me they remind her of edible panties. I laugh nervously. I get dressed and am pretty much dying of embarrassment when both the doctor and the assistant come back in (it's bad enough having my nipples measured with one person in the room).

Yes, that's what he does. The doctor pulls out a sliding ruler and measures my breasts and my nipples. I now know how large my areolas are in centimeters. I think it's safe to say that I could have probably gone the rest of my life without that knowledge.

Unfortunately, the worst part is not over. He pulls out a camera, and I repeat my previous photo shoot — only this time, I'm even more naked, thanks to the stupid paper panties.

The assistant diverts her eyes. When she notices my embarrassment, she assures me, "I know how you feel." She got her implants in 1986. I'm starting to like her better.

As the doctor snaps pictures of every uncomfortable angle of my body, Nickelback is singing a song about gold diggers and models. I hate Nickelback, and the singer's terrible vocals are only making this moment worse for me.

But I pick up on a line of the song: "We all just wanna be big rock stars, live in hilltop houses, driving 15 cars. The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap. We'll all stay skinny cuz we just won't eat."

It's a shitty song that sums up a shitty worldview, but it crystallizes the reason I'm standing topless, bored and blushing, in this office right now.

I never thought I'd say this, but Nickelback has given me an epiphany.

What happens in these offices is just the beginning. Along with the lipo and the breast implants, the nose job and the new chin, comes a whole lifestyle. The pressure for perfection is intense, and once one part of the body is "fixed," it's easy to focus on another flaw.

I'm struggling to see the point. I decide it's time to call the experts.

Maybe Nik Richie, the Dirty Scottsdale guy, is right. Maybe everyone just wants to feel famous, even if it's only to a bunch of has-beens and never-weres in the local bar scene. It certainly makes sense, the way he explains it.

"They want a local celeb status. It's easy to be famous out here in the Scottsdale scene. Every girl or guy wants to be talked about," Richie says. "So if a girl is getting so much attention and she looks a certain way . . . when in Rome. I look at women in two different ways: a girl I would sleep with and never talk to again, and a girl I would go horseback riding with and see if they will accept this rose."

I guess it comes as no surprise that Richie is a fan of plastic surgery.