by Elizabeth McGuire

It's not a horrible nose really. Perhaps just an unfortunate one--one that has been commented upon enough to fuel insecurities galore. It's a nose that probably could have gone through life happy enough if not for a few mistimed remarks.

My longish, almost pointy beak has a gradual rise in its center and a slight curve at its tip. It's the kind of nose that in photos looks better from one side, but I can never remember which side. On a good day, people say I look like Helen Hunt, which is obviously a nice compliment. On occasion I've been called Steffi Graf, which I believe was also meant as a compliment, but at age 16 I took as an insult. (The way I figured, the comparison had nothing to do with my backswing.) Then there was the reference that 17 years later still stings…Pinnochio. That burn came from a soon-to-be-ex-friend in 6th grade Spanish class, and I credit her with inducing my fixation with nose-breaking daydreams.

The obsession started on the soccer field. When you play goalie at age 11 you have a lot of time on your hands, so I often spent half the game imagining my winningest moment: The ball soars toward the corner, and I dive with arms outstretched. The ball smacks me squarely in the face and bounces into my hands. Victory is sealed. My teammates go wild as I'm paraded off the field, headed directly to the emergency room to fix my broken nose. I smile. Maybe I'll shape it into a cute little pug like Becky D'Camera's. . Even after I moved out of goalie position, the dream remained. I scrambled around those soccer fields for several years, but the nose stayed intact.

At 13, I took to the trees down near the creek behind our house. I had never liked heights much so I never intended to fall out of those huge oak branches. That one slip, the one that dropped me from the cradle of the tree, then bumped me off the branch below and somehow left me hanging onto an even lower limb…well that fall scared me so bad, it's the only time in my life I've understood out-of-body experiences. But I didn't have a scratch on me. I was only shaken, and the nose was fine.

So I skied for the next several years, down any snow-covered slope. I followed my brothers over cliffs and ridges, never mastering the art of a jump and often somersaulting into a scattered heap of powder, ski gear, and sometimes unlucky strangers. Smashing several pairs of sunglasses and goggles, I bruised everything but my nose.

I thought college would improve my self image, but a freshman-year incident at a nightclub didn't help things much. I was chatting it up with friends when an attractive, droopy-eyed girl kept looking over at me with the deliberate stare of someone who is too drunk to know that the fog surrounding her doesn't shield her from my view. She kept staring. I wrinkled my eyebrows at her. Finally she stumbled over, sat down beside me and looked me straight in the eye. Near tears, she said, “I just have to tell you how beautiful your nose is.” Oh God, I think. This is the kind of weirdness you hear happens in college. And my nose? What the hell?

“You see,” she continued, with a look swirled with shame and relief that should have warned me of the confession to come, “I used to have a nose just like yours.” If there was a dramatic pause I never heard it before she exhaled, “But I hated it so much so very much that even though my friends said it was unique and I was crazy I went ahead and got myself a nose job and some days I really miss it and feel like a part of me is gone which is true of course but I just hated it so much so very much but seeing yours right now I feel really sad just really really sad. Um…that's all I wanted to say I guess.” I didn't know who to slap first, this chick or myself.

I soon discovered marathons, and fell in love with long runs along jagged trails strewn with ankle-twisting roots and leaf-covered rocks. I found “the zone” too often, because I lost myself frequently enough to stumble over many a stray obstacle. Spending more than my fair share of time picking gravel out of gashes, I nursed my shins, knees, elbows, hands and chin. Not once did I scrape my nose. Mountain biking and cycling followed, with much the same results. Lots of falls, plenty of scars, and always a perfectly safe nose.

Now I'm old enough that I know several women who have gone under the knife for boobs, eye tucks and the like. I ask myself, why not just get a nose job? What's your hang-up? The thing is, despite all my bold antics and relentless daydreaming, I still can't imagine changing it on purpose. I would feel too silly, like I couldn't get along with something that's so close to me--something that's never done me that much harm.

It seems corrective surgery is a hot button with lots of women, and the recurring reason for these ventures seem to be, I want to feel better about myself. I'm all for women improving self image, and I suppose that's what it boils down to for me, as well: I don't think I would feel any better about myself if I did get a nose job. I fear I might feel worse.

But just in case, I signed up for boxing lessons. Sparring starts tomorrow.