The largest of the gelatinous orbs takes two hands, and the smallest about tops the palm. Tossing them around like water wieners or stress balls, it’s easy to forget that these silicone and saline orbs, set out for all to see and play with, are breast implants—the mother’s milk of local cosmetic surgeons.
Surrounded by otherwise pretty women with slightly red and swollen faces thanks to the mini-facials they just had, it’s also easy to forget that this is a party, hosted by the Weiland Group, a cosmetic surgery and skin spa. It’s a media-girls night gathering, where we all arrive feeling about our ages, give or take a few years, only to place our faces in a machine that can see through the age-fighting salves to which we pledge our allegiance.
This machine rates us against others in terms of sun damage, wrinkles, pores, bacteria and more, spitting out an unflattering picture reminding us that no matter how good we feel, there’s room for improvement—chemical, surgical, topical, whatever. While tossing around the breast implants, we discuss our results. “Ohhh, your porphyrins are low.” Or “Hmm, big pores, but still better than mine.”
We nibble Chambord-topped cupcakes and talk about who wants to get what procedure and what benefactor would pay for it, and, just 100 feet away, in a surprisingly comfortable surgery room, is a dangling fat-sucking tube. It seems to be inviting us to eat more refined sugar and drink more champagne and be merry because, as the Weiland Group website says, “Liposuction on Friday, Back to Work on Monday!”
And with that, it’s easy to forget how many cupcakes we’ve already had and throw back another. It’s only Thursday, after all. –Kate Silver