Penis Men

Written on 12/17/08

During seventh grade Homeroom, Sam thought it would be funny to show me pictures of naked tribesmen from a National Geographic magazine he found in his desk. The idea was to get me to laugh out loud, and it always worked. "Penis men," Sam would whisper and then quickly turn and flash the magazine, which was open to a spread showing about fifteen or so odd penises attached to sub-Saharan African tribesmen. I'm not entirely sure if it was Sam's delivery or the actual penises but I could never keep from laughing. And then one day I decided that no matter what, I would not laugh at the penis men. The joke was getting old.

"Penis men," Sam said and flashed the magazine spread. And though I felt my lips begin to curl slightly upward into a smile, I managed to remain looking mostly stern.

I think I also managed to disappoint Sam because the next morning, he didn't flash the National Geographic penis men at me. Instead, he turned around to face me with narrowed eyes and a mischievous smirk. Sam slung his arm over the back of his chair, gazed at me for a second, raised his eyebrows and then addressed me as Gonzo.

"Hey, Gonzo! The nose shows," he said, touching the tip of his nose and then pointing at mine. Then Sam laughed and smiled, and he looked at me expectantly, as if he’d just made a gut-busting joke and was awaiting my inevitable laughter.

This is where I felt my face become flush with embarrassment and utter devastation. And from then on, I ignored Sam during Homeroom. It was like, you fucker. And as far as I was concerned, he didn’t deserve to exist. Sam had hit me exactly where it hurt the most.

I sort of figure that if I ever happen to stumble across a magic lamp containing a Genie who promises to grant me three wishes, the first thing I will ask for is to own an apartment in the West Village. And then maybe I will ask for a lot of money, so I never have to worry about that sort of thing. But after that? I will ask for a smaller nose.

Throughout my life, I have been aware of the size of my nose. I have always said that if I could change one thing about myself, my nose would be the thing. And then whenever I have said that, people have always said things like, “Oh, stop it. You’re wrong. There’s nothing bad about your nose at all.” And I understand—my nose isn’t that bad, or even really that big. It’s certainly not giant. But it’s not tiny, either. And to me, it is the absolute worst thing about myself.

My hatred for my nose became so intense that in high school, I briefly considered rhinoplasty. And then I considered the fact that rhinoplasty costs money, of which I had none, and that my parents would never go for something like that, anyway. Now I consider rhinoplasty to be, in essence, like fraud.

Sometimes, I imagine what it might be like to be dating or even married to someone who actually loves every little thing about me. Even the annoying habits and tiny flaws. Because, after all, these are the things that make us human. In my fantasy, this person can live with my flaws and even finds most of them endearing.

And then I imagine that my nose is no longer a "flaw". Instead, it’s a cute button nose that sits squarely in the center of my face, radiating perfection. “I love everything about you,” says my Mr. Fantasy. “Even the annoying things—I cherish them. I can’t find one thing that I would even want to change. But mostly, I love your adorable nose.”

Then a few years down the road, immediately after our first child is born, I imagine the two of us staring at this alien baby with a giant nose. “Where did that come from?” Mr. Fantasy asks, shocked.

And that is why I’ve decided never to have rhinoplasty.

In the eighth grade, I found out that Sam had harbored a secret crush on me in the seventh grade. And I thought, really? Because flashing a magazine spread filled with tribesmen’s penises doesn't seem like the best way to go about getting the girl. Sam could have just asked me out. I would have said yes.