Opposable Thumbs

John stood at the front of the Four Seasons hotel lobby and gazed at a sea of revolting and surprisingly pungent creatures. Every year, the International Monster Convention unearthed the world’s zombies, ghosts, mummies, boogie men, vampires and other miscellaneous beings from the underworld and crammed them into an antithetically lavish hotel.

Though these monsters were supposed to be John’s contemporaries, he never felt particularly comfortable among them. Even to an outsider, he didn’t seem to fit in. He looked regular and unfrightening; at most, he was mildly unattractive. Really, the only thing distinguishing him from your regular 7/11 employee was his lack of opposable thumbs.

This thumblessness was in no way functional to his monster essence. It just made it difficult to open jars and text his imaginary friends.

Even beyond the looks department, John had nothing in common with other monsters. He didn’t eat eyeballs for lunch, he smelt like Irish Spring soap, and were he to walk onto a playground, small children would continue to go about their business. This made it easier to read on park benches on nice summer days, but it made for difficult small talk with ghouls and goblins.

John was a Nuisance Monster.

John’s life mission was to put that piece of spinach between your teeth before a presentation, make you fart on a first date, put that white sticky stuff at the corner of your mouth during a job interview, leave a trail of toilet paper under your foot and trip you in front of an audience.

As a Nuisance Monster, he was acutely aware of the importance of his purpose and the truly terrifying power he had over humankind. That butterfly before an interview? That was him. The panic that strikes when you engage in public speaking? That was him. The clammy hands on a first date? Him too. The sweaty armpits that develop when you need to talk to your boss? Kinda him, but more often than not, that was glandular.

The rest of the monster crew didn’t have the same appreciation for his art. If you didn’t have the power to walk up to a human and make him scream for his or her mother and run the other way, then you were as useful as a gnat trying to play the cello.

There were many more Nuisance Monsters about, but they stopped coming to the convention many moons ago due to their aversion to public humiliation - the irony was just too much. John kept coming though, hoping to meet a Nuisance Monster to commiserate with, and possibly to walk hand in hand with into the proverbial sunset. It was generally difficult for him to make friends (human and otherworldly) other than Nuisance Monsters: his absent opposable thumbs made it impossible to shake hands.

“Made anyone mildly socially awkward today?” said John’s least favourite vampire, Elagabalus. Turns out most monsters aren’t as jovial and accepting as one would imagine. I believe it’s the body odor, or in this case an O positive only diet.

“Hey Elagabalus! Presenting at the conference today?” he said smiling. The inane need to be accepted and loved by others holds true for monsters too.

“Yah. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or too.”

At least that’s what John heard. He could also sometimes hear him say “you’re” instead of “your.” It’s these little internal victories that made John less likely to stick a pencil in his eye in a fit of hopelessness.

Elagabalus' conference room was quite full, the only thing available was an aisle seat next to a suspiciously unsmelly she-zombie who was down one arm, but didn’t seem to have any unsightly open wounds.

“Hey,” she smiled.

She also had all her teeth.

Elagabalus came in behind him and tapped John on the shoulder while smiling at the zombie, “I know he doesn’t look it, but he’s a monster, so don’t bother with him, he’s not edible. He’s less than edible, he’s monstrously inedible. Unmonstrously rather!!”

See what he did there? Clever vampire. Elagabalus dispensed them of any more puns and walked off to the podium to commence his address.

She leaned towards him, “Why don’t you make him shit himself?”

"How is that supposed to get me any respect? I tried embarrassing monsters before, they're not easily flustered. Most of them already smell like shit anyways... Present company excluded.”

“It may not get you any respect, but it’ll make you feel better, and maybe he’ll slip on his own poop.”

“Listen, you’re a zombie, you don’t know what it’s like.”

She showed him her thumbless left hand.

“I do.” She nudged him with her stump, “This was from the time I pretended to be a member of the living dead. Turns out being a monosyllabic zombie isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It's impossible to groan a knock-knock joke.”

John looked at her startled, “That’s absurd! You’re a Nuisance Monster! Why would you cut off your arm to pretend to be a zombie?”

“Calm down! I didn’t, it was a car accident. But absurd is good. Come on! Make his voice crack, make him farty, make him something awful! Entertain me.”

“I’m sorry, personal growth is just not possible within six lines of dialogue.”

John looked back to the front of the room where Elagabalus recited his speech with solemnity. Then, Elagabalus interrupted himself and began to do an admirable rendition of the running man. Through his hopping, he struggled to get the rest of his speech out. His eyes burned, his lips curled into a snarl. The audience, though, was quite impressed with the impromptu entertainment.

My new acquaintance was smiling, her eyebrows twitching with the effort it took to make a full grown monster do the running man against his will, “And that’s how you do it.”

“Well that... that I’ve never tried,” John murmured impressed.

The Metaphorical Haircut

I have a special relationship with my nose. I have year-round allergies forcing me to carry a lifetime supply of Kleenex everywhere I go. My nose is also very sensitive to smells: smoke, perfumes, exotic foods, anything a bit out of the ordinary displeases it. When upset, my nose invariably crunches itself up and makes my eyes tear. On top of it all, it came with a small defect: a little bump on its bridge. So, on my last family vacation I thought I’d trade it in and get a new one. Apparently that’s not how it works when you get a nose job.

Not only do I have a very special finicky nose, I have a very special family. My entire family is from Curitiba, a large city in the south of the Brazil. My mother and father moved to Canada while I was still in the womb. Now, the three of us live here amid the igloos and caribou. Still, I am lucky enough to have my Canuck life interspersed with annual visits to the land of bikinis and sequins. Now, why is my family special? Well, you may have heard the statistic that Brazil is the country with the highest cosmetic surgery procedures per capita. I’d like to think my family has a direct hand in this. All of the men in my family are plastic surgeons; my uncles, my grandfather and my cousins all wield a scalpel. Actually not all, I have a cousin who is a pediatrician – he’s a bit skittish, you see.

I remember the first day of the last trip my old nose would ever make. After 24 hours spent in airports and airplanes, I climbed in an elevator with my grandfather, looking forward to a shower followed by an endless flow of aunts looking for an opportunity to pinch my cheeks over a cup of tea and some cookies.

“You know we can fix that,” my grandfather said pointing to somewhere between my eyebrows. Luckily, the elevator doors opened, leading the way out of an awkward and slightly insulting conversation.

I was always fully aware of the smallish speed bump resting on the bridge of my nose. I never liked it and often wished it disappeared. But I resigned myself to live with it right around the age of fourteen. At nineteen, I was confident enough, except for the reoccurring “I-wish-I-looked-like-Gisele-Bunchen” syndrome every woman experiences when browsing through a Victoria Secret catalogue.

Besides, surgery seemed so excessive. It was only a little bump, it didn’t do anything wrong. I also wondered if I was the surgery kind of person. I’ve always associated plastic surgery with over-the-top women like Joan Rivers - women who, if they winked, I swear to God, their toes would wiggle. But then, I imagined how my nose would look sans bump. And oh, how wonderful it would be.

Due to living in the land of cosmetic surgery, more than 80 per cent of my family has had some kind of plastic surgery done. Face lifts, tummy tucks, lipo, I suspect one chin implant, and a few dozen nose jobs. Turns out my nose bump is genetic.

I was told that if I were to go ahead with the surgery, the procedure itself would only be about an hour long: I’d go into the clinic in the morning, and I’d be home for dinner. I’d wear some nose bandages for about a week, and then I’d be free and pretty. My cousin compared it to a hair cut, “Why wouldn’t you get a good haircut if you could?” These are the words of wisdom that drove me to the operating table.

So I did it, and it wasn’t pleasant. A combination of anesthetics and loss of nose function made me feel like I had the flu. Once the bandages were off, I still didn’t look too great. There was some bruising and swelling, it took me a few more weeks to see what I’d look like for the rest of my life. Turns out I still looked like me but with a less bumpy nose. I felt as different as if I had taken a good shower; I looked the same, but I guess I felt a bit more put together.

When I returned to North America, few people noticed the change. Of course, I told all my friends, and if the subject comes up with new acquaintances, I don’t hide. I’m always amused by the shocked expression on people’s faces once they discover that my nose was tweaked with. Once, someone actually said, “What? You? But you’re so nice!” I visited a society where plastic surgery is normal; it’s a part of maintaining your appearance. In Canada you get haircuts, in Brazil you get tummy tucks. I don’t regret my decision, and am pleased with the results. I will not be going under the knife any time soon. I want to keep the essence of what I look like as is. Ok, maybe a haircut… but never a perm.

One more thing: I thought you’d like to know that giving my nose a metaphorical haircut hasn’t changed our relationship. I still sneeze and hate unfamiliar smells. Ungrateful schnoz.