God’s perfect specimen

There is a psychiatric condition known as “Body Dysmorphic Disorder” in which the afflicted thinks he/she is hideous (wikipedia entry).  These are often the least hideous people with beautiful bodies, perfect features, tan flawless skin, and gleaming white teeth.  Those with body dysmorphic disorder never cease to seek improvements.  However, none of it helps and they still feel ugly.  No matter how beautiful they become, they just have bad self-image.

I have the opposite of that disorder.  In my head, I’m stunning.  I may know at some intellectual level that I am not particularly tall or have a “toned body.”  Tim often reminds me that I have a disproportionally long torso compared to what he calls my “stumpy legs.” My nose is too Polish, my chin looks fat and my left ear sticks out while my right does not, making for an odd asymmetric look (if you investigate closely).  And somehow, still, despite all that and for some strange reason, I still believe I’m very very attractive.

It’s disconcerting to get a glimpse of myself in a store window because what I see can be contrary to what I believe.  This is especially true since becoming a tired mom and even more so now that I’m massive and usually covered in yogurt/peaches/avocado.  If I shower, it’s a good day.  Shower + deodorant = me ready for a night out on the town.   Despite these peeks into reality,  I still believe I’m the kind of mom you read about in Us or People, like Heidi Klum (when I’m being fancy) or Jennifer Garner (on a casual day).

This disorder of mine is not just limited to the superficial, lest you call me vain.  I actually believe (or believed, as I will explain later) that my body–the mechanical structure–is perfect.  I’ve never been ill, not even chickenpox.  I’ve never worn braces. No asthma (a delusion of the west).  No allergies (from oversterilization in childhood).  No glasses (“yes I have perfect vision”).  No meds (see entry on how I got knocked up).  When checking off my medical history with the dental hygenist, I would glow with pride, and feel slightly ashamed for all those around me who could not share in my perfection.

This is partly the reason I cried when being hauled into my C-section emergently to give birth to Ben.  Yes, I was overwhelmed by the sudden danger of it all, by the fact that I no longer had 15 hours of hard labor to prepare for parenthood.  But I was probably more shocked that *I* was no longer going to be perfect.  Surgery.  My poor belly being cut apart in a medievally bloody operation by a part time surgeon (sorry OB/Gyns).  This would certainly smear my future declarations of  ”I have no medical problems” with “I have had abdominal surgery.”  Ugghh..  Not only does not sound good, but it can be medically significant in years to come, for reasons I won’t get into here.  Plus that ugly scar and the scar tissue underneath.  Even with the opposite of body dysmorphic disorder, it’s just not sexy.

In a month, my doctor will unzip that scar to get Ben’s little brother out.  I had the option of trying a vaginal birth; some may call it  ”natural” childbirth.  After spending years telling Tim the stories of 4th degree lacerations, floppy cervixes on the delivery table being pushed back into the vagina, incontinence, uterine prolapse, etc..that term “natural” has been replaced in our household with “historic.”   Because there is nothing natural about it. Historically,  humanity had no other way to get the baby out so out the vagina it came, ripping out whatever may have gotten in its way.  It’s no shock that complications from childbirth are still a leading cause of death in the developing world.  It’s about as natural as the foodchain.  No thanks we decided.  The last thing I need to add to my surgical history is  ”vaginal tightening.”