‘Is it really necessary for [beach volleyball player’s] costumes to be so teeny-weeny?’ the July 2012 issue of Marie Claire sensibly asked. ‘And could the players’ honed, muscular and nowhere-near-size-zero physiques change the way we perceive women’s bodies?’ it continued, seemingly sensible, before cheerfully providing the answer to their question by running a full-page plastic surgery ad, and interviewing said athletes about their ‘shaping up’ strategies.
‘Shaping up’ as a concept relating to your figure has nothing to do with being athletic, strong or even particularly healthy, although if you’re lucky a stronger heart and pelvic floor will be a by-product of your exercise. But plastic surgery? No one’s going to win a gold medal by sticking in implants. Chris Hoy would have fallen off his bike. And then he would have bounced. And then we’d have been disqualified and I wouldn’t have been able to wave my flag on a stick.
In fact, the more I think about it, the less appealing the body offered to me by the surgeon’s knife and the suctionist’s vacuum becomes. Big round boobs, big round bum, nipped in waist, tightened thighs? Where’s the use in that? Where’s my heptathlon medal? Where’s my ability to withstand punches in the boxing ring? Come to that, if you’re offering me ‘new self-confidence’, where’s my ability to shoot lightening from my eyebrows in awkward conversations, eh?
If you’re going to offer me the ‘ideal’ body, for a ‘new’ self, then I WANT TO WIN AT SOME SPORTS. Because I’d rather not have my happiness defined by how nice I look sat in a chair, and I’d rather not be ‘perceived’ through the prism of the size-zero teenager that doesn’t exist in the genetics of most British women.
Therefore, using the miracle of surgery, I devised a new body for myself, in consultation with my plastic surgeon (who kept on rubbing her hands together and cackling as £££ signs appeared in her eyes), a team of crack scientists trained on Isaac Asimov, and Dr Charles Xavier. This is how I now look after the op:
Apparently I could haven had these slenderised and then I would have thin thighs. Is that all you can offer me? I demanded. Well, they said, we could also pump them full of steroids so they’re rock solid and strong enough to crack skulls. We could also genetically engineer your DNA so that your legs are part-grasshopper, they continued. You could jump six foot into the air and kick brains out. You’d never be mugged again, they finished. I’ll take it, I said.
If I press my coccyx, my arse inflates and glows red. It makes me look like an ashamed bumblebee. It’s very useful for keeping me afloat and attracting the attention of rescuers when planes have to make emergency landings in the ocean because I’ve just knocked the pilot unconscious by kicking him in the ear.
I didn’t actually have any of these, but I had them put in. They connect to my waist. I can glide almost fifty metres, which has been very useful in the rooftop chases that I am invariably involved in now that I am a surgically modified vigilante.
They are larger, since you mention it. But not very round, no. They are exceptionally useful though – if you squeeze that one, you’ll get lockpicks, bobby pins and darning needles from the nipple; if you squeeze that one you’ll get elastic bands or very fine steel wine; and if you squeeze that one, you’ll get a small hand pistol. It’s a murder to find the right bra though.
Detachable. Absolutely lethal boomerang.