I nodded. I knew all too well. No matter how beautiful they were, no matter how much their husbands loved them, women were always on the hunt for the next thing that would give them an edge. It was in our genes. If there was something we could do to make ourselves more beautiful, then why the hell wouldn’t we take advantage of it?
Women looked at beauty the way men looked at money. Sure, you might have enough, but it was always safer to have a little more, just in case you needed it.
“Take you, for instance,” he said, “there are about six things I could name right now that we could improve.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
Was he actually implying that I needed plastic surgery? I know he wasn’t trying to insult me, in fact, everything he’d done all night had shown that he was trying his hardest to impress me, but I was taken aback by his comment.
“Sure. I mean, you look really great already, but you could be a knockout if you came to my clinic for some work. A facelift, lips, collagen, boobs, cellulite. For less than a hundred grand I could have you looking perfect in six months.”
“Six months.”
“It would be a lot of surgery. You’d need time to recover.”
“I bet.”
“But it would be worth it. At least, my clients would say it was.”
“I could get a law degree with that amount of money.”
“But what would a girl like you want with a law degree?”
“It’s just an example.”
“It’s a bad example, Lacey. At my clinic, we could give you something you’d actually use.”
“Beauty?”
“Exactly.”
“Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?”
Rob laughed. “Sure, whatever. Believe that if you want. Women who think that don’t come to my clinic, and they miss out on all the ways we can make them better.”
“Make them better?”
“Isn’t it better to be more beautiful?”
I couldn’t believe we were having this argument. To be honest, I really didn’t have anything against plastic surgery. Who was I to judge? I spent a small fortune on clothes, makeup, even botox and filler on occasion. What was making me angry, was Rob’s attitude. He was implying that women could improve themselves by getting surgery. Like it was something we should do. Like it was an obligation. It was almost as if he was saying we weren’t good enough the way we were. It was a double standard. No one held men to such a high expectations. No one said to them, you know, some men speak five languages, work out every day, have perfect bodies, entertain everyone at a party, make millions of dollars, and drive Ferraris, and you’re not really keeping up unless you do the same.
Women, at least the women I knew, were accepting and loving of the imperfections in their men. They didn’t demand perfection. I felt like Rob wasn’t like that. I felt like he’d only love me if I did everything possible to be worthy of him.
“You know why women go through all that pain and agony and expense?” I said.
“Because we provide a service they’re hungry for?”
“No,” I said, my temper getting a little higher than I’d intended. “Because guys like you are constantly hinting and implying that we should.”
“I don’t hint.”
“You just told me that I could be way hotter if I had surgery.”
“You could. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re beautiful now.”
“But doesn’t it imply that I’m not beautiful, if you can think of fifty things I could do to improve myself?”
“Oh, don’t take this personally, Lacey. I’m just telling you what I do for a living. The world I inhabit. I’m not calling you ugly.”
God, was this what dating was like these days?
“You know, there was a time when men told women on dates that they were beautiful. You’re telling me I’m not ugly, and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, it’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all.”
The waiter came over, and it was a good thing he did, because I was about to fling my glass of water across the table at Rob. I was fuming. He’d unwittingly hit a raw nerve. I don’t know how it is for all women, but I’m incredibly self-conscious about my appearance. No matter how hard I try, and no matter how beautiful I feel, there are still things about my body that I’m sensitive about. I’ve struggled with my weight all my life. I’ve obsessed about this and that defect. Did he even appreciate the fact that I’d spent over an hour making myself as beautiful as I could for this date? Did he think it was easy? Did he think all girls were supermodels who just fell out of bed looking beautiful?
I fucking put myself on the line coming out to meet him. He was rich, handsome, successful. I’ll admit it. He was a little intimidating. Saying I could do things to improve my appearance, even mentioning the word cellulite, was not cool.
“Can I get you another glass of wine, Madam?” the waiter said.
I turned my wrath on the waiter. The poor guy didn’t know what hit him.
“Exactly when did I go from being Miss to being Madam? I’m thirty-four.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry Miss. I meant no disrespect whatsoever.”
I shook my head. I was losing it. I was making a complete fool of myself.