An Open Letter to Bruce Jenner
Dear Mr. Jenner,
I don’t know how this happened, but I got a bit obsessed with you. I know, I know. You are a married man. It’s not like that. I have no interest in having sex with you. I am just obsessed with you.
I guess it all started one day in San Francisco. My friends and I were watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians and you came on screen. We spent an entire afternoon making fun of both you and Scott Disck and the way your faces looked next to that ugly blue screen the producers made you interview in front of. I could not get over your face. Your feminine jawline, Michael Jackson-inspired nose, your long, manicured fingernails and your eyebrows that were more tweezed and shaped than my own. I could not stop staring. You were the nine-car-pile-up-with-a-few-tragic-deaths and I was the passer by who should not be gawking, but how could I not gawk at a sight like that?
From then on my obsession only grew. I kept watching Keeping Up With The Kardashian’s not for the vapid, selfish antics between Kim, Kris and Kourtney, but for that rare moment when you would wake up from a 48-hour nap and zombie into the room wearing basketball shorts and flip flops. I kept watching for moments such as the time you pierced your ears and wore giant womanly diamonds or when you had to put a baby monkey in a car seat and drive it around Los Angeles. I kept watching because when you smiled, science did not make sense anymore. Everything I knew about gravity seemed like total bullshit.
I started doing my research about you. I read you were an Olympic Gold medalist. The Cold War kind of spun you into an American Hero. I read that you were on a Wheaties box. I read that you started your own aviation company and that you dabbled in racecar driving. I read about all your attempts at Hollywood acting. I read that in the 80s you fell into an emotional slump and underwent an “ill advised face-lift and nose job." This was the procedure that left your mug slightly messed up. I also read that when you turned 60 years old, you decided to treat yourself to an updated face-lift. You even let the producers of your family’s reality show follow you through the procedure. You exposed yourself and your demons. You let everyone be involved in the making of your freakish face. I admire that. You are like Joan-freaking-Rivers.
Bottom line here, I’m simply trying to intellectualize your choices. I’m just trying to see some political statement about gender, social norms or masculinity in your plastic surgery quests so that I feel less bad about Google searching images of you on a daily basis. Are you trying to make a statement about the pressures of being an American? Are you making a statement about athletes? Vanity? Stardom? Hollywood? Tell me.
I don’t knock anyone for getting plastic surgery because I do not know what it is like to hate something about your face so much that it disrupts you from carrying on with your life. However, I have a lot of questions about your face and none of them are rooted in judgment. I’m just curious. I’m just obsessed.
If you ever want to rationalize the ethics of plastic surgery with me, I’d gladly lend an ear. Until then, I await the exciting turn of events when you wake up from your latest 2-day nap.
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