Hallelujah, finally I can start having kids! No longer do I have to worry my children will be ostracized for having my husband’s ugly mug or my sub five-foot stature. Imagine, not having to devote a year of your life to leg-lengthening surgeries or write yet another My Summer Vacation Nose Job essay—git ‘er done in utero! Maybe those scientists can isolate the double-D gene while they’re at it—kill all ugly birds with one genetic stone. Now what will girls do on their 16th birthdays? I’m sure they’ll think of something because while supposedly It Gets Better it gets worse first.
Oh, sure, I hear you saying, but if everyone’s beautiful, no one’s beautiful, to which I say, Au contraire, mon frère, which is French for: raising the bar on beauty makes those once considered beautiful feel what it’s like to be average or as I like to say, invisible. We 99.9% say, Welcome!
Raising the bar, any bar—looks, intelligence, high jump—just raises all boats. Look what happened when all the rich parents jumped on the college prep bandwagon. SAT scores shot up giving those with not-so-bright kids but a lot of money an unfair advantage. Were these kids smarter? For three weeks, yes. And then, no. Timing is everything and then apparently, it’s nothing.
Fifteen years ago I moved to southern California, THE OC—where if it ain’t broke, plump it! Originally from the east coast, I initially all-out refused to become vapid and attractive. But now, more than a decade in, “fillers” is a line-item on my tax return, working out comes first and eating (I like to call it: sampling) comes last. I named my two schnauzers Splenda and Truvia.
To those residing in the midwest who can’t understand all this hullabaloo about good looks and looking good I have one word: corn. Corn is as important to you midwesterners as good looks are to those residing in so cal. Capisce? (Thank you google translate. You’re welcome.) And for those of you poo poo’ing southern California’s superficiality I have 20 words for you: "Researchers found babies as young as one day old spent more time fixated on attractive faces than unattractive ones." Duh.
As far as smarts go well, I guess we can genetically modify for that, too, but let’s be honest, when I look out across a crowded room or over an interview desk I can’t see your grey matter. I can only see the golden-triangle proportions of your face (or aluminum trapezoid, if you catch my drift). Let’s face it (pun intended)—you never get a second chance to make a genetically-modified first impression. So let’s get splicin’!
Designer babies, slippery slope, oo. What, I ask, is all the brouhaha about? I never met an adult who waxed poetic over his/her pimply-duck-face-and-fat-ass childhood. If Jennifer Aniston had better cheek bones, fuller lips, was two inches taller, wore vials of blood around her neck, tongue-kissed her half-brother and was a proponent of infidelity do you think Brad would have left her? I think not.
People, calm down, I mean it’s not like we’re genetically-engineering death out of the picture (I wouldn’t wish cryogenics on Pamela, my pet hamster). Some nice scientists are just making it easier to get through the day-to-day drudgery of life, i.e. looking in the mirror, standing in the line at Starbucks, blind dating. Imagine the repercussions: blind dating will have to be re-named something like well, dating because while you won’t know exactly what a never-before-seen stranger looks like you will, at the very least, have a higher than average chance they will be smokin’ hot. And without a drug/alcohol-induced blackout what more can you ask of a one night stand?
If we can send a man to the moon isn’t it about time we can consistently send a handsome one?