"TWEAKMENTS" OR FREAKMENTS

I have bought a lot of books I’ve never read. Someday, I tell myself. If only I’d stop placing holds on books at the public library. I tend to have unread newspaper articles that linger as well, less now that I’ve stopped forking over $12 Canadian for the Sunday New York Times. It’s become a treat instead of a habit. My coffee table is much less cluttered.

 

Even so, I came across an article in my desk drawer yesterday. It’s from August 19, 2021. I’d never read it, but I hung onto it anyway—a tempting read; one that might lead to trouble. It’s called, “Lifted Necks, and Other Upgrades for Guys.” Basically, it’s about men having work done to “improve” their looks. I finally read it this morning.

 

Botox. Fillers for cheeks and jawline. Em-Sculpt (to tone abs). Laser treatments to remove sunspots. Buttock lifts. Breast reduction for men. A nose raise with fillers. Eyelid surgery. Liposuction. Neck tightening. 

 

It’s all there. 

 

What surprised me most was the ages of the men interviewed in the article. I actually laughed when I read about a 27-year-old having “Botox as a preventive.” What?! What will this guy be doing when he hits my age, 61? 

 

Most of the article was not at all funny. I should readily dismiss the entire topic. I should take into account the professions of several of these guys—a personal trainer, a social media influencer, a public relations executive. Their appearance is part of their brand. I should also think about that woman who was nicknamed Catwoman for having too much work done. As well, I can conjure up several celebrities who look like they went too far. My L’Oréal eye cream may not be doing any good but at least it’s not doing damage.

 

Still, I actually read with interest. Like I said, tempting. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was 17. I have body dysmorphia which causes me to obsess over perceived imperfections. The first body part I ever wanted altered was my elbows. I was probably twelve. I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that elbows, when the arm is fully extended, are ugly on everyone. Seriously. They’re just a weird body part. What would one do if they received an elbow compliment? You’re mocking me, right?

 

One common behaviour of people with eating disorders is body checking. Not the hockey move but the repeated looking in mirrors and the reflections in windows. It’s about fear, not vanity. It arises from, How bad do I look? rather than, How good do I look?  For more than a decade—probably much more—I’ve also been body checking by looking at other men’s bellies. I basically notice every single one. I compare them to mine. It’s my own theory of relativity. In relation to other men, how bad is my stomach? Guys without any gut protruding over the waistline of their pants make me panic. They remind me I’m not good enough. Guys with “beer bellies” calm me. I know I’m somewhere in between and, if I could ever be objective, I might be able to admit my stomach doesn’t protrude. 

 

Or does it? Cue panic once again.

 

Most of the procedures mentioned in the article are not of interest to me. Even as messed up as I am about my looks, I won’t become a plastic surgeon’s cash cow. I’m not one for invasive procedures. Hell, I have a requisition for bloodwork that’s been sitting on my desk for a month now. It takes a perfect kind of day, including a ton of self-talk, to get me to go for a blood test. I have a severe needle phobia. It’s a thing: trypanophobia. It’s listed in my medical file. One of my medical providers even typed on the requisition form (not at my request): “Please ensure accuracy. Patient has a needle phobia and we do not want to risk repeated lab visits.” Amen. 

 

Botox involves needles. Egad. How would I handle that? Maybe the wrinkles on my forehead and the sags under my eyes aren’t so bad.

 

When people talk about plastic surgery, they talk about going “under the knife.” It probably comes as no surprise knives freak me out, too. Add on the fact that a needle probably has to be administered first for a local or general anesthetic. (I’m having a hard time typing these sentences. My wrists are hurting. I am not kidding. Yes, I am a sad case. I know this.)

 

I will not be making any appointments this week for what the article alternatingly referred to as “tweakments,” a “cosmetic refresh,” or “wellness routines.” Words like torture, horror and extreme trauma do not appear in the article. Talk about skewed reporting!

 

I will admit that a couple of procedures have some appeal: the butt lift and whatever is required to avoid what one man in the article called “extreme turkey neck.” Yes, I don’t want to be Turtleneck Guy. Not in the summer when it gets above 30°C. 

 

But not for now. Maybe when I have to go under for a root canal. Let there be a single anesthetic as the oral surgeon and plastic surgeon work in tandem. 

 

For some reason, I can’t throw away the article. It’s going back in the drawer. I’ve read it, but I may want to read it again as sagginess becomes more of my reality. Who knows what may happen?...Someday.

 

 

 

 

 

  

A DIFFERENT WORLD

Okay, I survived my visit to Texas. My family relations are intact. Still, there were parts of the trip that mystified me. Why, for instance, does a chopped-up highway, much of it under construction, have a speed limit of 75 miles per hour? Just keeping with the flow of traffic as I navigated a parade of semis felt like taking my life in my hands. If Texans can’t drive 55, how about 60…or even 65? (“There’ve been lots of bad accidents on that road,” my father said. No kidding!) 

 

Next time, I might take the connector flight from DFW to my parents’ local airport.

 

My parents live in a condo building with oversized units. Theirs is about three thousand square feet, including a walk-in closet to die for. Texas likes things supersized from vehicles to homes. (My nephew, an exception, lives in a “tiny home” near Austin.) I jogged all through their neighborhood which was full of monstrous homes that made me wonder, Who lives there and what in the world do they do with all that space? Do days pass when they never see another family member? Do they sometimes skip meals because the kitchen is too far? 

 

Fortunately, we did drive through some older neighborhoods where the homes had character. Some houses might even have been described as bungalows. Lovely. This also got us off The Loop which circles Tyler and is dotted with strip malls, gas stations, fast food outlets and car dealerships. Yeesh. Zero charm anywhere along the way.

 

One of my takeaways from my visit is the notion that Texans don’t like change. This includes denying a changing world (e.g., global warming) if those changes mean they have to do something differently, however innocuous. Going out for meals, I realized Texas—or the places we went, at least—wasn’t doing anything to consider its environmental footprint. People drank from paper coffee cups even as they stayed and finished their drinks in the restaurant. Everyone had plastic straws. They automatically came with every cold drink. Doggy bags were Styrofoam containers. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Styrofoam. Later, as I asked at my parents’ home where to put some recycling, my mother explained (to her chagrin) the condominium complex voted down recycling. No one wanted to haul a big bin out for weekly pickup. I hadn’t realized opting out was an option. How is it people are still resisting recycling?

 

All of this was extremely frustrating. In British Columbia, we go strawless (or use admittedly icky paper straws). Food containers and to-go utensils are made from recyclable materials and are compostable. I know the focus needs to be on what we do as individuals, but it’s mighty maddening knowing that large swaths of the planet are doing nothing. There are easy fixes but Texas won’t go there. To change would constitute a nod to the possibility of climate change deep in oil country. Why have any regard for environmental impact?

 

And so I segue into the political/religious milieu of what I experienced in Texas. To be clear, I did not have conversations with strangers. I did not mention the orange dude’s name and, thankfully, my ears didn’t prick up with others talking about him. Whew. Things were more subtle. On Sunday, I drove along The Loop, stopping at a dozen gas stations and drugstores, on a quest for a copy of The New York Times. Nothing doing. I can only conclude that Tyler, Texas does not carry that paper. Why would it want something representing that dang “liberal media”? Why would it want another point of view? 

 

As I knew would be the case, my parents watched Fox News each night… “but only the broadcast with Bret Baier.” A balanced journalist, as my mother asserted. I tried watching. On a segment about the government shutdown, all their interviews and quotes were from Republicans except for one Democrat whose aired soundbite wasn’t even a full sentence. Sorry. Nothing balanced about that, no matter who the news anchor is. I did not point this out; instead, I went to the guest bedroom and did a Wall Street Journal crossword.

 

At the coffee shop where I wrote on a couple of mornings, there was a Bible quote from Luke covering a full wall. I don’t recall the quote as being particularly polarizing; I’m just not used to having anything biblical in my face as I have my oat milk latte. Stranger perhaps was when I returned my Hertz rental car at DFW. As I got out of the car and greeted the attendant with a friendly, “How are you?” she responded, “I’m great because the Lord Jesus Christ is still my Savior.” Um. What? Is that even allowed from an employee to a customer? Of course it is. It’s Texas!

 

Sheesh.

 

Perhaps the most bizarre moment came during the last twenty minutes of my stay at my parents’. While my father was in his office space, giving away personal information that might well have been part of a scam (“I hung up before I gave away too much.”), my mother entered the living room and began a monologue of news items of the day, each piece delivered with a distinctly skewed conservative bent. Don’t respond, I told myself. But how could I read my novel while she continued to rant? 

 

My mother knows very well how radically different our views are. As she rattled on, I wondered if I had done anything to bring this on. I couldn’t recall making a single political statement. I’d duly admired churches (“nice architecture”), strolled rose gardens and obligingly sampled egg salad for dinner. I can only assume that slipping out while Bret Baier finished his newscast the night prior had left my mother thinking I was missing out. 

 

I really wanted to keep my head down, to stare at the paragraphs of my open book. That would signal I was otherwise occupied. But then I also knew this would be interpreted as ignoring my mother. Guilt trip to follow. I made occasional eye contact, doing my best to keep my facial expression neutral. My mother surprised me with an out of left-field (er…right-field) Margaret Thatcher quote about socialism. Please, I thought, Let this command newscast come to an end. 

 

But not soon enough. I finally had to interrupt. “I’ve had a really nice visit. Can we please not end it on politics?” One more political comment and that was a wrap.

 

Later at DFW airport as I waited for my flight to depart, I scrolled Twitter as a break from writing on my laptop. My eyes caught the name Margaret Thatcher. I stopped scrolling. By god, it was a Fox News tweet—how is that in my feed?—with the exact quote my mother had spewed that morning. And yet she claims she’s not beholden to the network. It was a disappointing ending to the visit. I did my best to shake it off, trying not to think how much a single news source was shaping her views.

 

Oh, Texas. What have you done to my parents? After forty-seven years of them living there, they are most definitely full-fledged Texans. They have always been conservative. Just not so unabashedly so. Still, I feel a sense of triumph. They will not change; rather. Instead, it is up to me to change. I kept my mouth shut for once. I’d like to think they will have nicer memories of my visit. In the end, that’s what counts.

 

CROSSING THE BORDER

It’s still five days away but already my mind is in Texas. It’s not about longing. No, the Lone Star State looms. 

 

Texas is a Red State with a lot of personal history. I lived there for eleven years, from tenth grade through university and four years of teaching. But I left thirty-six years ago. I headed to L.A.—Malibu, specifically—and thought I’d never look back. 

 

Well, not exactly. That’s personal history rewriting itself. My years at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth had been particularly good times. I left Texas but many of those friends didn’t. At least, not at first. Back when George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton were presidents, I’d make an annual trip to see friends and family. Politics had no bearing on travel decisions within the U.S. 

 

My, how that’s changed…

 

As far as I can recall, I’ve only returned twice in the last fifteen years, once for my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, the other time for my niece’s wedding. (My niece now lives in Colorado.) 

 

Yes, my parents still live there. I sound like a heel since I haven’t visited. They’ve been living in a condominium for many years and I’ve never seen it. (My mother reminds me of this often.) But I do see my parents. I used to anyway. We would see each other every summer at the family cottage in Ontario. A few times I saw them at my sister’s place in Colorado. They’ve come to Vancouver as well, often connected with one of the many cruises my father loves to plan. 

 

For the past two summers, my parents have not gone to the cottage. They’ve said they won’t be going anymore. Navigating airports and flying have become too much for them. They’re not driving to Colorado either since the higher altitude negatively impacts both of them. And so, In 2024, I visited them in Gulf Shores, Alabama where they drive to spend a month each fall. It wasn’t so bad. I walked the beach, I biked a marshy area, I wrote by myself in a café. No politics. (Headphones can be glorious.) I don’t remember what the news of the day was but it was two weeks after twice-impeached Trump was elected president once again. (WTF?) My parents’ candidate had won so they probably felt like victors, too. Why rub their son’s face in it? (We’re not that kind of family.) I watched morning news with my parents. Safer viewing. More talk about the weather than anything else. I tracked down a New York Times while my parents read The Wall Street Journal. Politically, we coexisted without any two-track debates where our arguments never converge. This news-related ceasefire was a rarity for us.

 

But now it’s a much belated return to East Texas, the city of Tyler, two hours from Dallas, forty-five minutes from where I went to high school. 

 

East Texas.

 

This is a central hub for Red State thinking. This is the state that wants to put up the ten commandments in every classroom, for god’s sake. This is a state that smiles smugly as it proudly busses and flies immigrants to New York. It’s not an anti-gay, anti-trans leader like, say, Florida, but you can bet they’re on that bandwagon. I do everything I can to block from my mind whatever it is that Texas does politically. I don’t need the agitation or the aggravation. 

It would be easier to visit if my parents weren’t such news junkies. News is on morning and night. There are two newspapers delivered each day. My father comments on many of the news items, his opinions highly skewed. I hope to read, write or time my exercises with some of the newscasts. Anything to minimize the chances of an argument. As it is across the entire country, no one is going to change anyone’s mind in my parent’s household. All I have to do is shut up, even regarding topics about which I care deeply.

 

Repeat: No one is going to change anyone’s mind. 

 

Quite frankly, the news scares me. I don’t want to hear what’s being said on Fox News, nor do I want to hear what Texans are telling Texans. I don’t want to have a better understanding of what books are being banned, what anti-gay and/or anti-trans bills are before the state legislature or have recently been enacted. I don’t want to hear the political banter when I write at the café my mother tells me she thinks I’ll like. 

 

Must. Wear. Headphones.

 

In between newscasts and football games (which I also can’t bring myself to watch), let there be times to chat and connect. Let there be an occasion when I can hop in my rental car, drive to a state park and walk among the pine trees where the flora has no political opinions whatsoever. Let me get through this trip, family ties intact.