Detour To Vanity

Doesn't really matter if you're a filthy rich, extremely influential talk show host, or Abercrombie & Fitch sales assistant, there's no escaping the tyranny of beauty. Like it or not, we only stand a better chance to prosper if we have the look and the body, as shown by numerous studies.

The whole concept of taking care of how you look never seemed to take hold of me.

If there is a mythological opposite of Narcissisus, I think I pretty much qualify to fall into that category. Fat chance you will find me drowning in my beautiful reflection; more possibly I would writhe uncomfortably in my own skin, and envy the paragon of pulchritude in solitude.

Sooner or later, I need to give in to the judgmental society; so I guess sooner better than later.

It surprised me that I would be tempted to take a detour to vanity. I hit the gym thanks to the promotion the folks at Fitness First are having: members can bring a guest at weekends. Since my father is a member, and eager to escape the sultry heat with nary a drop of rain, I tagged along--just before the creeping ennui drove me insane on a lazy Sunday afternoon. For the sake of my peace, I gave in to the exhaustive pleas of my mother to loose weight, before the curse of the inheritance (cardiovascular disease) shall fall upon me on the cold operating theatre, at the mercy of the surgeon and the scalpel in the dreaded coronary artery bypass.

Felt a little apprehensive about geting pass the the haughty glance of the front desk clerk and the demeaning automatic barrier, not to mention the cruel stare of the towering gym bot. It's one thing to get pass the security to get inside; quite another to muster up the courage to face up my insecurity once inside, little niggling doubts and fears that I try to bury deep inside hoping no one sees suddenly would be magnified for all and sundry to scrutinise.

First thing I noticed once I enter the gym is its sterile environment. Everywhere you turn, there seems to be layer of latent disinfectant. There is virtually no trace of sweat on the treadmill, dumb-bell and locker. Another prominent feature is the patented clinical approach to working out: time-keeping, distance-measuring and calorie-burning-tracking are meticulously displayed right in front of you, reminding you the effort you put in.

While on the treadmill, I started to think about the endless debate regarding beauty and perfection.

The arguement always stress that size-zero models should be banned; now I feel it is rather pointless. I don't think that our issues with our bodies are because of skinny models or virile hunks; rather that the latter is a result of our desire to be beautiful and perfect, a desire that homo sapien have had.

We have always been obsessed with body issue. When I hear a person says he is happy with his body, I don't think: "That's nice." I just think: "What's wrong with you? Are you mad?" I dread the day I am asolutely satisfied with the way I look, because what then? How on earth will I fill my days? Perfection is all well and good, but what do you strive for afterwards?

It's the height of hubris and arrogance, today's presumption that if we just work hard enough at it, we can overcome our human frailty, defeat our own mortality. I think perhaps the answer to it all lies not in the attainment of perfection, but in the pursuit of it. Like most of life's great quests, it can only end in failure. But the struggle may be reward in itself.

Or perhaps we should just accept that it's normal to be unhappy with our bodies, instead of feeling guilty about it. That seems good enough for me.