I was in Las Vegas last week. Land of bad Elvis impersonators, an Eiffel Tower knockoff, gondolas that glide across shallow swimming pools instead of murky canals, AND an over-abundance of fake boobs. Lots and lots of silicone.Come to think of it, aside from Sin City, I don't think I've ever seen so many fake boobs in one place. Not to mention the fake tans, fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails, fake noses, fake lips, fake ____________ (fill in the blank). Everyone seemed to be masquerading as someone else. It was difficult for me to discern fantasy from reality, well at least until I looked into the mirror!
Remember that Oprah episode about human Barbie Dolls? It chronicled women who had spent thousands of dollars and endured multiple surgeries to transform their faces and bodies into living, breathing Barbies. With each surgery their noses got smaller, cheekbones more defined, lips plumped, boobs enlarged and fat sucked away. Post-surgery their hair was blonder, teeth whiter, tans darker and jewelry flashier.
In the altered reality of Vegas I encountered one of those women. She almost knocked me over as I tried to exit the casino. As I stumbled I was struck by a few things, including her enormous, fake knockers. She was frighteningly skinny, no bigger than a size 0, her tanned and leathery skin stretched uncomfortably over her 5'10 frame. With her stilettos and teased, blond hair she appeared to be 6'2. Her tiny body could barely support her enormous chest and it was all she could do to stand up straight as she held on to her date for dear life. After my initial shock wore off I looked more closely. I ignored the barely there mini-skirt and the tight & tacky spandex tank top and focused on her distorted features.
Her lips were filled with too much collagen, her brow smooth and shiny from Botox. Restylane filled her cheekbones and fake, feathery eyelashes framed her wrinkle-free eyes. A tiny, upturned nose was barely noticeable above her bee-stung lips, and eyeliner was expertly painted to draw attention to her cat-like, blue eyes.
Although she held herself with an air of confidence, her eyes were empty and she seemed brittle and hollow. It was achingly obvious that she was not as young as she tried to appear. The attention she drew was mostly from people gawking in horror. No one was fooled by her vanity; clearly she had purchased Nicole's nose, Anna Nicole's breasts and Angelina's lips. And all of the money and painful surgeries had failed. She did not look like a Barbie Doll.
As I watched her walk away I thought of how often my own vanity or pride causes me to live under pretense. I don't want people to see how messy my life is, how deep the wounds, how severe the traumas, how pathetic the vanity, how painful the suffering. I would rather appear to have it all together, or to seem smarter or funnier, or even kinder and gentler. But just like the wannabe Barbie, others see through the pretense, and in the instant I choose to keep hiding I miss out on letting them know me as I am, instead of who I wish I were. Funny how that works.
In the altered reality of Vegas I encountered one of those women. She almost knocked me over as I tried to exit the casino. As I stumbled I was struck by a few things, including her enormous, fake knockers. She was frighteningly skinny, no bigger than a size 0, her tanned and leathery skin stretched uncomfortably over her 5'10 frame. With her stilettos and teased, blond hair she appeared to be 6'2. Her tiny body could barely support her enormous chest and it was all she could do to stand up straight as she held on to her date for dear life. After my initial shock wore off I looked more closely. I ignored the barely there mini-skirt and the tight & tacky spandex tank top and focused on her distorted features.
Her lips were filled with too much collagen, her brow smooth and shiny from Botox. Restylane filled her cheekbones and fake, feathery eyelashes framed her wrinkle-free eyes. A tiny, upturned nose was barely noticeable above her bee-stung lips, and eyeliner was expertly painted to draw attention to her cat-like, blue eyes.
Although she held herself with an air of confidence, her eyes were empty and she seemed brittle and hollow. It was achingly obvious that she was not as young as she tried to appear. The attention she drew was mostly from people gawking in horror. No one was fooled by her vanity; clearly she had purchased Nicole's nose, Anna Nicole's breasts and Angelina's lips. And all of the money and painful surgeries had failed. She did not look like a Barbie Doll.
As I watched her walk away I thought of how often my own vanity or pride causes me to live under pretense. I don't want people to see how messy my life is, how deep the wounds, how severe the traumas, how pathetic the vanity, how painful the suffering. I would rather appear to have it all together, or to seem smarter or funnier, or even kinder and gentler. But just like the wannabe Barbie, others see through the pretense, and in the instant I choose to keep hiding I miss out on letting them know me as I am, instead of who I wish I were. Funny how that works.
