I am powerless in the face of a shortbread cookie. I look at it; it looks back at me. ‘Don’t eat that you fat bitch,’ I command myself. Then I start bargaining: ‘As a sign of your strong will and self-discipline, you must not eat this cookie. You can have a cookie later, just not this one.’ Soon the Scottish temptation is flying into my mouth and I am savouring my moment of defeat. Wait for it….yeah…an intense wave of pleasure washes over my body Continue reading
‘Face direction of travel,’ commands the sign suspended in a shiny hallway of the Heathrow airport. My spatial disability prevents me from obeying, for I never really know where I am. If you try to help by using such exotic terms as ‘north’ or ‘south,’ my eyes will go blank as I swerve the wrong way, probably into the Thames River. Right now I know only that I am headed back to Canada, my ever-too-brief English visit at an end. I will return home a little fatter—the Licorice Hut near the London Eye is partly to blame—and a whole lot wiser. For example, I learned the useful verb ‘vagazzle’ from watching a British TV show about women with shiny faces and glue-gunned twats who date boxers. I learned that taxi drivers do not like to take credit cards, but they are much obliged, and rather surprised, by tips. ‘Cheers Madam!’ I learned that expensive rubber pants are worth every penny. Oh, and I guess I also learned something or other while reading books every day about early modern tape worms, breast cancer, and anal fistulae at the Wellcome Library, British Library, and British Museum. After all, research was the reason for this trip, right? Well… Continue reading
Unlike most people, I love long flights. That is the only time I can unguiltily relax, get caught up on Mad Men, or even better, read an entire book in one sitting. While travelling I recently completed Rhian Parker’s Women, Doctors and Cosmetic Surgery (2010). Though in many ways hideously dull and repetitive, I found one argument–based on in-depth interviews with Australian women who have purchased cosmetic surgeries of various kinds–surprising. Apparently, women do not pursue breast reductions or enlargements, nose jobs, and eye lifts in order to stand out or be looked at, enviously by women, lustfully by men. (All of the interviewed women were straight, something worth thinking about). Oh no; they just want to blend in and ‘look normal.’
Really? Because that is not my experience with cosmetic surgery; I mean, with hearing about other people’s cosmetic surgery, for I have had none of the invasive prodecures listed above (nor have I had any kind. I have not even had my appendix out or experienced a broken bone). Now I should confess–and this is something you already know–that most of the women I encounter who have had such interventions are fitness models, Continue reading
Right now I am in a certain northern Ontario town giving a talk about medicine and art. After touring me around all day, my lovely host dropped me at a fancy new gym beside the grocery store. I paid $15, got changed, and then went into the spacious, well equipped weight room, feeling rather pleased with myself. A staff member suddenly appeared, informing me that I was breaking an important club rule. ‘Tank tops are not allowed,’ she said, staring at my sleeveless attire, emblazoned with the words Olympia Las Vegas 2010. ‘You have to wear a t-shirt.’ ‘What?’ I chortled. ‘How else am I supposed to show off my guns?’ (I said this as if I was joking but the message was factual. I often pretend to lie while boldly telling the truth. It’s kind of my thing.) The heavily-clothed staff member was not amused. ‘Some clients could be intimidated,’ she stated. I had never before thought of my shoulders as intimidating, even offensive. I suddenly remembered visiting the Vatican and various churches in Rome, where bare shoulders are forbidden. God knows what you’re wearing, you brazen hussy. And so does Angelica, the anti-armpit Nazi. Continue reading
For the first time since I began blogging in August, I wracked my brain for a topic. After running through my schedule of events this week—I wrote a talk to give to medical students, organized the renovations of the hallways and lobby of my condo building, sweated through tabata training, drank coffee, reminisced about Vegas with the delightful G-Smash while eating Cajun chili, approved an MA thesis proposal, participated in a reproductive rights teleconference, bought 18 tins for gifting baked goods in December, and hired a diet coach—I decided that it was all too boring. Who, other than me, would give a rat’s ass? Continue reading
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