Corpus Transmorphica Grande

If you are like me and know just enough Latin to be a danger to yourself and also enjoy highly Americanized Mexican food, you likely believe the above title refers to Taco Bell's newest burrito. Actually, if it did, it could hardly be any more disturbing or bland than their usual attempts to meld the six bulk ingredients they have on hand to create novel menu items. Just because they give it a new name, do they really think we don't realize it's the same inexpensive cheese product and questionably edible bean-like paste? Don't even get me started on the lumpy grey goop they call "meat".

But that's not what I wish to talk about in this column.

Instead I'd like to delve into the fantasy that I believe many people have had that might also be called the "Instant Perfect Body".

Most of you know what I mean by that, but just in case a stray Abercrombie model surfed by, I will simply state that the IPB fantasy is a day-dream where one's physical flaws are all wiped away by an unnatural (and benevolent) force and all of one's good features are enhanced to a point of exquisite beauty normally unseen in nature. The details of the transformation vary from person to person, as does the extent, but in the end we all become just friggin' GORGEOUS in comparatively little time. Poof! We're models!

What interests me about the IPB desire are the three parts of it that I would call the Delivery Devices, the Larval Stages, and the Guilty Pleasures phase. These parts, I imagine, make an otherwise common desire wildly divergent and certainly fascinating, even uniquely cool. As no two dimples on an ass cheek are alike, no two IPBs are either.

For myself, the greatest variation in my IPB comes from the "Delivery Devices". Something powerful, and external, has to make the change in my appearance, and rarely do I receive an explanation of why I am the beneficiary of such delicious beauty. The Lord, aliens, stray chemical waste leaks, leprechauns, and confused evil sorcerers have all made appearances in my fantasy as the actuators of my transformation. At times I have called forth the agents by prayer or (for example) by looking under a rainbow for a pot of gold, and each entity grants me my wish.

How they grant me those good looks are what I call the "Larval Stages".

In keeping with the spirit of "Instant Perfect Body", many times the Larval Stages are truncated and consist only of the aforementioned "poof!" One second I am standing there with unconditioned abs and a crooked smile (my only two flaws of any note) and a flash of bright light later I have a six-pack of hard muscles and a dazzlingly straight mouth full of gleaming white teeth. But sometimes there are actual stages. Some desire to make the fantasy more real prods me to make the change more gradual so that any observer would think it natural. Instead of just becoming perfect in seconds, I take a few days or weeks so that my friends would notice, but not immediately assume I had sold my soul to nefarious agents. I have fantasized on occasion that my "Instant" perfect body took three months of slow, progressive improvement.

But no matter who does it or how I become perfect, eventually I get the undeniably handsome body that I unquestionably deserve. And thus I begin to use my new found looks and end up experiencing the "Guilty Pleasures".

And I do mean "guilty".

Let's face it: If you looked like Justin Timberlake, you would go out and party like friggin' Justin Timberlake. Joining that monastery, which I'm sure sounds reasonable to short, fat, balding folks, would make absolutely no sense if you had the body of a porn star. If you got it, flaunt it.

Still, even in fantasy land, I have something resembling a conscience and inevitably the guilty part of the Guilty Pleasures enters the dream. What happens to my friends and family while I am off cavorting with Rachel McAdams and Jessica Alba? Do I pretend not to know any of the still "normal" looking folks that I once proudly interacted with after I become awesome? How can I leave them all back in Average Acres when I have moved on to Glamour Gulch?

Like this: So long suckers! Hello, Rachel...

Okay, so maybe I don't have that much guilt. But the results of my transformation do vary and sometimes I actually put my looks to good use once I have them. I get a great job, find a new wife, buy my parents giant mansions etc. etc. Eventually I work out the kinks and end up happy.

And then I wonder: Why do I need to be beautiful to be happy?

I'll tackle that whopper another time. For now, I would ask that anyone interested e-mail me a description of an IPB fantasy. Perhaps we've had a similar one involving leprechauns and Jessica Alba (or Justin Timberlake depending on your preference). I'll post some of mine from time to time just to see if at various stages of my life the IPB changes too.

Pigassus

Post Script 1: If any Abercrombie models did wander by, please allow me to be the first to help you with any difficult words and accept any photos you wish to pass on.

Post Script 2: I write out my IPBs like so:

Delivery Device: Unknown Golden Ray coming from my shower head.

Laval Stages: Instant improvements wherever the rays land followed by successive improvements each time I shower.

Guilty Pleasures: After a couple months of magical showers, Rachel McAdams sees me having lunch with my Mom and instantly falls in love with me. Take that Ryan Gosling!