I've recently completed my sixth cellulite treatment at a spa in New York's speedily gentrifying Hell's Kitchen neighborhood -- about 10 blocks from Times Square.
It cost $1,200 to get my thighs and butt slathered in cold jelly, wrapped in plastic, heated up, chilled to the bone, and pressed with a hand held device emitting lasers and ultrasound waves. At the end of each hour-and-a-half long session my adipose tissue -- loaded with watery toxins, I was informed -- was kneaded by a Brazilian woman's tiny but preternaturally forceful hands.
Did I mention I'm getting married next month? That could explain why I've gone temporarily insane.
"In Brazil these treatments are much cheaper," Iriana had confided as she kneaded. "And girls start young. Before they even develop cellulite."
I've seen the famous behinds on the beaches of Rio and Bahia, and Iriana's words might have depressed me. But now I knew the girl from Ipanema's secret. Or rather, the skinny brat's grossly unfair advantage.
Last month, before our first session, Iriana took pictures of me from all angles and measured my waist and thighs. Plus that area just above my knees caps which has grown increasingly hateful over the past couple of years.
At this point I'd like to say that if you're ready to deliver me a lecture about women and body-image the evils of self-loathing, know this: I am aware that my physical obsessions are petty and psychologically destructive. I simply choose to indulge them in my free time.