It's hard not to gawk at GQ's recent report on leg-lengthening surgery, ew-ing and ugh-ing at the description of one patient's post-op limbs. ("A small section of his right femur is still a little soft, like al dente spaghetti.") It's easy to balk at the idea: letting a doctor take a literal hammer to your bones with the promise that after months of slow, painful healing, you will be hotter. (Or technically, taller, which, let's be honest, is culturally synonymous with being hotter...if you're a guy.) It rises in your throat like a gag reflex, the instinct to scream when you learn that people (mostly men, often in the tech industry) are paying $70,000 to $150,000 for the promise of stretching a mere three inches taller. (By this measure, multiple pairs of Louboutins are a smart, affordable alternative.) As much as I want to snark at the absurdity of such a procedure—one that involves steadily cranking surgically implanted nails in your legs each day, like an orthodontist tightening one's braces—honestly, I get it.
If there is one thing that binds us all, it is the desire, whether unspoken or shrieked into the void, to be hot. I understand the instinct to contort your square peg of a self into the round hole of desirability, to smooth your edges until you are just a pile of loose spaghetti. I feed that hunger every time I scrub my face raw with another chunky green cleanser that promises to make my skin "brighter." These scrubs always cost $10 an ounce and smell like the ocean's asshole. My appetite to be attractive grows stronger as I watch hours of TikToks begging me to try "slugging," which will make my skin look gooey like a bug (sexy) instead of dry like a human woman (upsetting). I will brag every time I eat my vegetables (consume articles on body neutrality) while pretending I don't lick my fingers clean after scrolling through my nightly snack of celebrity before-and-afters on Instagram.
If there is one thing that binds us all, it is the desire, whether unspoken or shrieked into the void, to be hot. I understand the instinct to contort your square peg of a self into the round hole of desirability, to smooth your edges until you are just a pile of loose spaghetti. I feed that hunger every time I scrub my face raw with another chunky green cleanser that promises to make my skin "brighter." These scrubs always cost $10 an ounce and smell like the ocean's asshole. My appetite to be attractive grows stronger as I watch hours of TikToks begging me to try "slugging," which will make my skin look gooey like a bug (sexy) instead of dry like a human woman (upsetting). I will brag every time I eat my vegetables (consume articles on body neutrality) while pretending I don't lick my fingers clean after scrolling through my nightly snack of celebrity before-and-afters on Instagram." target="_blank" style="text-decoration:none;color:#555555;" rel="noopener">It's hard not to gawk at GQ's recent report on leg-lengthening surgery, ew-ing and ugh-ing at the description of one patient's post-op limbs. ("A small section of his right femur is still a little soft, like al dente spaghetti.") It's easy to balk at the idea: letting a doctor take a literal hammer to your bones with the promise that after months of slow, painful healing, you will be hotter. (Or technically, taller, which, let's be honest, is culturally synonymous with being hotter...if you're a guy.) It rises in your throat like a gag reflex, the instinct to scream when you learn that people (mostly men, often in the tech industry) are paying $70,000 to $150,000 for the promise of stretching a mere three inches taller. (By this measure, multiple pairs of Louboutins are a smart, affordable alternative.) As much as I want to snark at the absurdity of such a procedure—one that involves steadily cranking surgically implanted nails in your legs each day, like an orthodontist tightening one's braces—honestly, I get it.
If there is one thing that binds us all, it is the desire, whether unspoken or shrieked into the void, to be hot. I understand the instinct to contort your square peg of a self into the round hole of desirability, to smooth your edges until you are just a pile of loose spaghetti. I feed that hunger every time I scrub my face raw with another chunky green cleanser that promises to make my skin "brighter." These scrubs always cost $10 an ounce and smell like the ocean's asshole. My appetite to be attractive grows stronger as I watch hours of TikToks begging me to try "slugging," which will make my skin look gooey like a bug (sexy) instead of dry like a human woman (upsetting). I will brag every time I eat my vegetables (consume articles on body neutrality) while pretending I don't lick my fingers clean after scrolling through my nightly snack of celebrity before-and-afters on Instagram. |
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