by Bob Purssell
“It’s a gift for all you’ve done for us.”
“I adjusted your daughter’s mask.”
“Yes, and you protect us.”
“The government pays me for that.”
“Not enough. They’re cheap; I’m not. It’s just my way of saying thank you. Let me do it.”
“It’s too much.”
“Fiddlesticks. We have more money than we know what to do with. We won’t miss it; anyway, I’d probably spend it on something I shouldn’t.”
“Then I insist on taking you and your husband out to dinner.”
Realizing she had to let me do something, Arlene replied, “Gerald’s out of town on business. How about feeding me and my brood?”
“Good. But we’re not going to some pizza joint.”
“My children will be crushed; they hate healthy eating.”
* * *
After returning from our meal at their favorite pizza joint, I played with the kids for quite a while before Arlene ordered them to go to bed. As children are wont to do, they asked for five minutes more and then another five minutes. Finally, Arlene put her foot down. Protesting against the injustice of it all, the boy and girl, accompanied by their mother, went off to bed.
For a little while, sitting in the enormous living room of the palatial home, I listened to the children talk to their mother, but then the conversation stopped. I expected Arlene to return immediately, but she did not. Alone, my mind drifted off and I began thinking once again about BetterYou. Lost in my thoughts, I never heard Arlene until she put her hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Exclaiming, “You startled me,” I looked into the laughing face of my friend who had changed into her silk pajamas.
“You were so deep in thought, I had to. A penny for your thoughts.”
“I’m trying to make a decision.”
“Sounds mysterious. Is he tall, dark and handsome?”
“Nothing like that,” I replied, trying to decide if I should mention my interest in BetterYou.
“Now I am curious,” answered Arlene as she sat down next to me on the couch.
“It’s something we plain Janes wrestle with.”
Giving me a look, Arlene declared, “You ain’t no plain Jane, honey, if you can impress my husband like you have. Whatever you did, it sure got his attention.”
Alarmed, I asked, “I didn’t cause a problem.”
“Not for me. It’s something you do on your ship. Anyway, he’s the brains of the outfit. I’m the eye candy.” Before I could protest about her derogatory characterization, Arlene added, “Something about objects … I never get the technical things right.”
The conversation was heading in three directions, each of interest to me. Trying to get the various subjects back on track, I asked, “Intuitive objects?”
“Yes, that’s it. What are intuitive objects? No, stop. They’re complicated technical stuff, right?”
Happy not to explain, I answered, “Yes. And you’re not eye candy.”
“That’s very kind of you. But I know my place in the grand scheme of things. I’m the trophy wife.” Taken aback by Arlene’s critical self-assessment, I started to frame my rebuttal. Before I could, she continued, “And I intend to be the best.”
“I didn’t know they held competitions.”
“Every day, in every way.” Arlene paused, then added, “Give me a moment; I want to show you something.”
I replied, “Sure,” and Arlene left the room and returned about three minutes later. Standing in front of me, she let her robe slide to the floor. The pajamas were gone; in their place were a pink teddy and a string bikini. Arlene was one hot momma.
Sitting next to me on the sofa, totally at ease with her near nakedness, Arlene responded, “Okay, let me tell you the facts of my life.” After I smiled, she went on. “My husband is smart, rich, handsome, and young enough to be interesting to a zillion chippees who would sell their souls to be the third Mrs. Rivers. Agreed?”
When I nodded, Arlene continued. “I know all that, so I intend to set the bar so high that my husband won’t even be tempted. Practically, what does that mean?” Leaning forward, cupping her breasts in her hands, she said, “It means this, all that he wants and then some. But that’s not all.” Now pointing in a sweeping gesture, she said, “It means his home life is as perfect as I can make it. His house is beautifully kept; his children are trophy children; his wife is a superb mother; his wife is the wittiest hostess; his wife is … well, you get the point.”
“You make it sound like you need a twenty-eight-hour day.”
“Sometimes I do. I’m not saying I have it tough. I don’t. I love my life; I love my kids; I love my husband; I love the sex; I love it; I love it all, but I’m aware if I mess up, I could be out in the cold.”
“Life has its little challenges.”
“Without a doubt,” replied Arlene with a grin. “And this is one gal who, by hook or by crook, intends to hold onto her piece of paradise.”
Arlene stopped speaking. Instead, with a knowing smile she just stared at me. Finally, I got it and said, “It’s my turn, right?”
Coyly Arlene replied, “I’ve revealed all. Now let’s talk about something interesting … you. What’s going on?”
Confused, I replied, “What do you mean?”
“I can hear the gears turning round and round. You’re thinking about something. The older woman wants to know.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I gave Arlene a rundown on how I felt about my body shape and BetterYou. I finished with, “So I’m trying to decide whether I should do it?”
“Vanity, thy name is woman.”[45]
“Yes, yes, yes, I want a beach full of men, even fat old men and thirteen year old boys, to look at me like they look at certain other women of my acquaintance.”
“It’s not always a positive,” observed Arlene.
I facetiously replied, “A living hell, no doubt.”
“You’re right. It does change how men react to you. That was my experience.”
“You’ve had augmentation?”
“I went the surgical route.”
“If you were me, would you do it?”
“That’s your decision. I owe a portion of my life, this beautiful life, to what I did. If you changed, if everything worked out right, you probably would have options you don’t have now.”
I picked up on Arlene’s emphasis on the word “probably,” and she explained, “Having a shape that men like, that they fantasize about, all that does is get your foot in the door. Once you have their attention, then what?”
I responded, “There has to be something inside the package?”
“Correct. From the way my husband is gushing over you that doesn’t seem to be a problem. However, there’s more to it than that. You have to know what you want.”
I started reassuring Arlene with the words, “I would never,” but stopped when she raised her hand.
“I wasn’t thinking of you and Gerald. When I said, ‘You have to know what you want,’ I was thinking in terms of your life.”
“I look at what you’ve created and think, ‘Wow’.”
“It’s not all peaches and cream. My life has its challenges. For me, all attractive young women are rivals. That’s the world of the trophy wife. Relax at your peril. If you made the changes that you’re contemplating, from a physical attractiveness perspective, you would be a formidable rival. I don’t think you want my kind of life, so I’m not overly concerned. But I would keep my eye on you.”
“Trophy wife: law of the jungle,” was my response.
“To me it’s no joking matter. Right now, I know of three women who have the welcome mat out for my husband. I don’t take them lightly.”
* * *
I met the Ronald Reagan when she doc
ked at Pearl Harbor, but I never rejoined the ship. Instead, I received orders to report to a shore-side communications facility in Virginia to begin my next tour. Unenthusiastic about this assignment, I mentioned my disappointment to Arlene Rivers, who said she would talk with her husband. A day later, he suggested I apply to the Advanced Naval Communications School (ANCS), recently established at College Station, Texas. Immediately following up on Gerald River’s advice with my detailer,[46] to my surprise, I received an acceptance email two days later instructing me to report to the ANCS by 19 January. Was this the good ol’ boy network in action? Whatever it was, it was a good career move, and I looked forward to my return to the academic world.
* * *
The evening before I left Honolulu for Texas, I had dinner with Kelly. Over dessert, we talked about our careers. Disappointed with her new assignment as an administrator for pilot trainees in Pensacola, Florida, Kelly whined, “I guess this is the navy’s revenge for my not being a prim and proper female aviator.” Then she continued, “I’m being shuttled off to a dead-end assignment.”
Feeling sorry for herself, my friend would not accept the career-limiting impact of her reputation as a timid fighter pilot. I counseled. “If you take a negative view, it probably is a dead-end assignment. On the other hand, maybe the navy is giving you an opportunity to make a new start.”
Plaintively, Kelly asked, “You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, my statement belying my belief that Kelly had indeed gotten a dead-end assignment. Then, putting the best spin I could on the situation, I gave my friend a pep talk. I finished with, “Do well at Pensacola and they’ll forget all the earlier stuff.”
When I finished, a partially convinced Kelly grudgingly admitted, “You may be right.”
* * *
In addition to my academic pursuits at the ANCS, I had two other conflicting goals. First, making good on my self-promise, I decided to look actively for a church and a pastor to see if they could help me put an end to my sexual hang-ups. Second, I was going to investigate BetterYou, which had an office in Houston.
Immediately after my arrival in College Station, more interested in finding a pastor I could relate to as opposed to the church’s religious orientation, I made a point of attending numerous services and talking with many pastors. In the end, I settled on a jovial fellow with a wonderful sense of humor who had served as a chaplain in the navy.
* * *
Late one Thursday afternoon, having finished my classes for the day, I met with Pastor George Wolcott privately in his study.
Not knowing where to start, I began by asking questions about the church, all the while trying to get up my courage so I could talk about what was truly troubling me. My subterfuge must have been transparent because, after answering several of my questions, Wolcott observed, “Barbara, I’m getting a feeling that you’re trying to talk to me about something.”
If I had the requisite amount of personal courage, if I had true faith, I would have simply told the pastor of my problem. Instead, I said, “I can’t. I’m too ashamed.”
“If your burden is that heavy, all the more reason to ask the Lord for his help.”
My eyes tearing, I said, “I … I just can’t tell you.”
The pastor thought about my response then replied, “I understand that we’re just getting to know one another. If you’d like to take a little time, that’s perfectly all right, I’ll be here. When you feel more comfortable, we can talk then.”
“Thank you … I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I realize opening up to a stranger is difficult.”
I left after we said a prayer. On my way to my car, I hesitated, started to turn around and then decided I would schedule another meeting the following week.
BETTERYOU
Right from the beginning, I did well at the ANCS. By the end of February, I was the leading student in my class. Feeling that now was my best opportunity to make a change, I visited the BetterYou office in Houston. Impressed by their sales literature, I filled out forms, talked with a social worker cum salesperson, and scheduled my treatment at BetterYou’s Caribbean facility during the spring semester break.
In the late afternoon, as the airplane approached my destination, I could see the blue of the Caribbean lapping over the white beach sand. I was of mixed minds about whether I should proceed. Trying to humor myself, I mused: If I decide not to go forward, I can always take a vacation.
Bag in hand, I stepped outside of the small terminal and looked around. A tall, lanky black man in a suit was holding a sign with my name printed on it. We exchanged pleasantries as he drove me into the countryside to what looked like yet another resort.
* * *
Monday morning, I met my counselor, an attractive middle-aged woman named Dawn Abercrombie. After telling me she was a medical doctor, she began our interview with, “We at BetterYou like to make sure that our clients are clear in their minds about what they should expect from our enhancement procedures. Therefore, we like to ask a few questions. Are you comfortable with this approach?”
“Yes. I would have been surprised if you didn’t ask.”
“Good. Then let me begin. In your application you wrote that your objective was to become more feminine.”
In BetterYou’s Houston office, this question had come as a surprise. Now my answer sounded so wishy-washy. Maybe, I thought, I should have written, “Does not like to be identified as a pirate’s treasure … a sunken chest,” or “Doesn’t like to be identified as being as flat as a flight deck.”
Resisting the urge to wise off, wanting to express my desires better, I expanded my answer. “I believe, no, I’m convinced that my body’s shape is sending out the wrong message.”
Dawn probed, “Could you be more specific?”
“Men don’t appreciate me as a woman.” Then, in a flash of remembrance, I added, “One, in fact, called me an androgynous bitch.”
“I’m not familiar with the word.”
“Neither was I. I looked it up. It means genderless, asexual.”
“Do you feel that way?”
Trying to keep cool about my sexual proclivities, a touchy subject, I answered, “No. In fact, I enjoy the company of men. It’s just that, well, I feel they don’t give me a chance.”
“How so?”
“They look at me. No. They look past me to other bigger gals. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes. It’s a common problem, cultural mores, stereotyping.” Then after flashing me a smile, Dawn added, “We hear what you’ve just expressed often … and we can certainly help.”
Before I could speak, she asked, “Do you intend to continue your career in the navy?”
“Yes. Yes, I certainly do.”
“Do you see making a change like what you’re contemplating impacting your career negatively?”
“That’s one of the reasons I chose BetterYou. A friend, a fellow officer, Kelly Murchison, recommended you.”
“How’s she doing?”
Surprised, I replied, “Good,” and then asked, “Do you know her?”
“Indirectly. Her counselor is a colleague. You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t want to be like Kelly. Kelly’s Kelly. No, I want to be me.” After Dawn nodded her approval, I added, “I don’t want to be a movie star; I just want to be more feminine.”
“The attractive, professional woman?”
“Yes. Not-not flamboyant … just nice.”
Smiling, Dawn said, “Let’s talk about ‘nice’.”
Not sure where she was taking our conversation, I cautiously answered, “Okay.”
“We at BetterYou have done a fair amount of research on how what we offer is received. Our clients have expectations, and we want to fulfill them.”
I nodded my understanding
.
“Using a variety of techniques—interviews, hidden cameras, questionnaires, and focus groups—we have tried to determine how people react to women who have had breast augmentation and other enhancement procedures.”
“I’m all ears.”
“With your technical background, I thought you might find this interesting,” replied Dawn with a smile. “Boiling our research down, we found size, confidence, and proportion are the three factors that make enhancement successful.”
“Well, the first one is pretty obvious.”
“Actually, no. Many women are fearful of being too big. They ask for less than what they truly want. Later they find they’re disappointed.”
“Since I got the first one wrong, what do you mean by confidence?”
“Deep down,” explained Dawn, “you have to feel what you’ve done is right; that you have truly created a better you. When it comes to your appearance, doubts are a killer.”
“Got it.”
“Proportion is often overlooked. Our research tells us people might start by focusing on one aspect of your appearance, but they eventually do look at the total you.”
“Extremism in the pursuit of beauty is no virtue.”[47]
That crack took Dawn by surprise and she replied, “I never heard it put that way before.”
“It’s just me. I’ll put a lid on it.”
Dawn returned to her subject. “So where does this leave us?” she asked rhetorically. “You have selected one aspect of your anatomy for enhancement.”
To myself, I thought, It’s a sales pitch, you moron.
“I think you could benefit by considering some of our other offerings.”
I realized Dawn was trading me up. While the other offerings might be beneficial to me, they certainly would benefit BetterYou’s bottom line.
Dawn must have sensed the onset of sales resistance because she backed away from discussing the offerings. Instead, she said, “Let’s get started. First, we have to make some measurements. That way we’ll have real data when we discuss a plan of action.”
I agreed. I’m strong-willed. I’ll have no problem saying no and sticking with my original choice.
