Front Bottom

I went to Walmart to buy a bag of organic oranges and a dog toy. They were out of the toy and the oranges didn't look so good, so I snagged a bag of clementines and a flavored water and headed to the checkout.

There was a girl in front of me in line; she was maybe 20 but maybe 18. A bit of a butter face, she bleached her hair blond, wore short cutoff shorts and a gauzy fitted top; she had a fantastic tan. And her legs--I'm still dreaming of those legs--they were long and lean and beautiful.

She bought picnic items.

To my left there was a middle aged woman who was probably younger than she looked. She was very heavy. She had a front bottom. Here hair was mousy brown and she wore the sort of clothes you have to wear when you have a front bottom: Knit. Through the thin pale blue pants you could see her (amply proportioned) panty line and deep crevices of cellulite.

I wondered if a man loved her.

And then I wondered if she used to look like Gams in front of me. It seemed possible. It is possible. A woman can be a cheerleader in high school and sport a front bottom as a member of the PTA.

Facebook, more than any fashion magazine or Angelina Jolie movie, makes me scrutinize the way I look. I get anxious at the thought of someone from high school looking at my photo and thinking, "She really let herself go." And so I bleach my teeth, dye my hair, paint my toenails, and do ab exercises on the ball. My fear of judgement has a singular manifestation: I keep myself up. Empathy isn't part of the gig. As I pluck my eyebrows I wonder why my high school crush got (very, very) fat.

At this point, if anyone other that me is reading my words, that person inevitably thinks I'm a major fuckwad. And I probably am. But my point is this: appearances matter. If they didn't the woman to the left of me at Walmart would have been a woman, not a front bottom in thin knit pants.

I take care of myself for more than Facebook. I spend time and money on my appearance because I take pride in myself. Just like I used to starch and press my cammies because it was a reflection of my commitment to Navy standards, I now fill prescriptions for Retin-A and push back my cuticles because it is a reflection of my commitment to both corporate culture and my own personal standards.

So where's the rub? Why the fuck does any of this matter? Because I want to know why some people gain ten pounds and then loose it before buying bigger pants and other people buy bigger and bigger and bigger pants for the rest of their lives. What is the difference between those two people? They are equal. Neither one is more important or valuable. But they are drastically different in a way that is visually obvious.

Beauty is a cruel trick. It is bestowed haphazardly and without logic--the least deserving are often the most obviously endowed. Money is a similar thing. Some earn it, but many rich folks happen into it. And as if it is an oath they take to secure security, they buy a garish approximation to beauty that serves as a reasonable substitute as far as public scrutiny is concerned.

In May of 2010 I get to go to Camp David to attend the retirement ceremony of a favorite Master Chief. I'm stoked. Not everyone gets to see Camp David and the Master Chief really was a favorite. The thought of not being attractive at that event paralyzes me. And it's not some weird latent paternalistic crush.* It's the audience; I'm afraid of being deemed less than I was while I was in the service. And I know the only method for making that judgement will be an intangible combination of my weight, dress, and general appearance.

I want to win whatever game my life is and I don't know how, but I do know my appearance is part of the equation.

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*The English language is painfully lacking a word that means, "A crush on an older man that a woman wants to materialize into something that will fix the wounds her father inflicted."

Of course, that word might just be, "crush".