I watched a show while I was cooking tonight. It was a documentary about a plastic surgeon’s office in Glasgow. It showed all sorts of different patients coming in for everything from botox to hair transplants to full facelifts.
What struck me is that the patients each really hated something about the way they looked and yet, to me, they looked fine. What’s more, I couldn’t tell much difference when they were done. Meanwhile, some of them were weeping for joy at the removal of jowls, or a double chin or the improvement of a sagging eyelid. Each of these physical ‘flaws’ had weighed that person down, ruining their enjoyment of life, preoccupying them with stuff that their friends hadn’t even noticed, and that absolutely, 100% does not matter in the end, because we’ll all be dead soon enough and no-one who walks past your headstone will know or care that you once had sagging eyelids!
It made me think about the flaws I see in my own face as I approach my 53rd birthday (yikes!).
I’m pretty sure I exaggerate them. I say this because I have sat in front of my best friend, turning my head this way and that and saying “c’mon surely you can see that?!” all while she insists that no, she doesn’t think my neck looks like a turkey’s and she doesn’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about.
But watching that documentary reminded me that jowls, lines, double chin, fat thighs … none of it matters in any of the ways that really count.