Sometimes one of the kids will run ahead and then yell, "I beat you! I won! I won!" And the other one will cry, "I didn't know we were racing!! That's not fair!"
That's how I feel here on my vacation in San Diego. I feel like, "Hey! I wasn't competing! I didn't even know there was a competition and even if there is, I don't want to be a part of it." Yes, my body here is not quite up to snuff. Sure, in Spokane I'm a super model, but here... wow... people keep trying to check me out but can't seem to finish the job.
At first I was very shocked. Wow! Look at all these beautiful people! I don't have 8 hours a day to work on my abs, and even if I did have 8 hours a day extra, I would definitely NOT use it to form, maintain, or count all six in my pack.
Then, I picked up a local rag. The first several dozen ads were for depression/anxiety treatments. And the next hundred were for plastic surgery. And then the last hundred were for medical marijuana: free gram on opening day!
Ah HA! These bodies are off the shelf! These bodies have serial numbers!
I read that I could get an eyelash enhancement for $99, vaginal labialplasty (for the close-up!) $2490, eyelid surgery $2499, 5-minute nose job $499, forehead lift, resurfacing, noses for $99 AN HOUR, and breast augmentation breast augmentation and breast augmentation.
So people watching has become a price comparison and a saline vs. silicone debate. They look like "learn-to-draw" sketches, perfect circles here and there and connect with a thin line. Couples walk down the beach, staring at their own bodies: she watching her breasts and marveling about the beauty of her surgical extra-puberty and he ogling his six pack, to make sure all the members of the pack are there. I imagine he's counting: one, two, three, four, five, oh shit! No there it is, hahahha, six. And I can pick out the tourists right away, because we all have lumps that are not perfect circles and are not all in the precisely right places. And we are not counting our bumps and we don't care.
There was a murder here recently where the underwear model's teeth and finger tips were removed but she was identified by the serial numbers on her breasts. Not only was the story gruesome, but I felt a sense of betrayal, like finding out Lance Armstrong used drugs. I want my models to be naturally beautiful, or at least working on it. But surgery is just cheating. Huck explained that for models, surgery is like going to college. And I did wonder where the line is between orthodontics and augmentations. I mean, my teeth are worth at least as much as a new pair of tits.
But last night! I found my crew! We saw George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic at a small club. It was awesome. There was an eye-candy-man dressed like a polar bear, break dancing. Jesus Christ was on the keyboard. He didn't look like he'd managed to fully rise from the dead, but he did look like he'd been dead for the past three days. I'm pretty sure the girls by his side were not the Mary's and Martha. But maybe they were, backsliders in underwear and wigs. Something extraordinarily beautiful was on bass. A man in a yellow vinyl Elvis jacket, paired nicely with a giant diaper orchestrated mayhem. Nothing you wouldn't see every day in New Orleans. The club was small and it felt more like a raging participatory party than a performance. George was awesome, in control, a maestro of funk. It was perhaps one of the top performances I've ever witnessed.
And when one of his back up singers raised her arms and I saw her hairy pits, I felt like I'd come home. I felt free to expose my post-pubescent pits, unshaved since 1999. And I was FUNKY too. Oh yeah. Funky! They were my people, only a few serialized, off the shelf boobs there. But mostly, hair and naturally giggling mammary glands. And I can't hear a thing today, but George and P-funk, funkin it up in my head.