It's after midnight at a trendy local club -- the kind of place I visit maybe once a year. I realize how woefully out of touch I am with the club scene when I can't help noticing all the bursting bustlines on young women who probably don't have the DNA for it. Of course, when you're trying to diet yourself into supermodel shape, the boobs are often the first to go. Next stop before the tanning salon and the hoochie mama clothes: the plastic surgeon.
Has the sexual revolution caused us to hate our bodies? I mean really. Is all the dieting and surgery and fake this and that really evidence that we just LUV ourselves and can't get enough of our own pulchritude? Or is it self-loathing disguised as self-improvement?
Maybe anorexia and chronic obesity are two sides of the same coin. Maybe the plastic surgery craze has the bizarre compulsion of cutting as its shadowy sister.
Few generations before us have been so obsessed with the flesh. We worship sexuality and ask it to give us more satisfaction, pleasure and importance than it is capable of.
Then when it fails to live up to our godlike expectations, we knife it into submission ... or into oblivion. We starve it into perfection or gorge it beyond recognition.
Sex as a commodity demands a level of consumer satisfaction that sex as a unifying force does not. One depends on perfection and novelty -- the other allows for flaws, imperfections and weakness.
Think about it.