STRANGER THAN FICTION: MAYBE THERE IS SOMETHING TO 'PLASTIC FANTASTIC'

South Floridians spend more time, money and effort on their appearance than any other population on earth.

It's a pet theory of mine, one that can't be proven with hard facts but is based on keen observation.

First of all, there are those radio ads for cosmetic surgery. The newest one features a man yapping about how he loved his wife in her natural state, but when she became obsessed with her small breasts, he generously helped her pick out a cosmetic surgeon.

The last line of the ad is: "Now my wife feels really good about her body, and I must admit, I like it better too." What a humanitarian! I'm sure he begged and pleaded with his wife not to go to a D cup, but she just INSISTED on having a painful, expensive surgery so she could stand to look at herself in the mirror. That guy should win the Nobel Peace Prize.

Of course, South Floridians don't stop at breast implants. The county will probably have to open another landfill to accommodate all the excess skin and fat coming out of plastic surgeon's offices.

More evidence: In South Florida, you can see bare buttocks anytime you want during daylight hours. It's amazing. In fact, there's a bethonged beauty lying by the swimming pool at this very moment.

We're not friends or relatives, we've never seen each other before in our lives, but I happen to know that she has a small tattoo on her upper derriere and absolutely no cellulite.

I'm going to cry now. Of course, having a firm, tan derriere means lots of time in the gym and in the hot sun again, time, money and effort spent on beauty.

And, finally, there's the obsession with manicures and pedicures. The salon-to-female ratio around here is extremely high. No South Florida female would even THINK about going out without acrylic nails and painted toes.

I don't want to be "plastic fantastic," as one of my non-South-Floridian friends calls the folks down here. There's only so much working out I can do, I can't afford liposuction and, if my Lycra-reinforced, one-piece bathing suit rides up to reveal my rear end, it's NOT on purpose.

But I can have good nails.

The Other Half gave me the Christmas gift of a $25 certificate for a manicure and pedicure at a local salon. I think he may have been trying to tell me something.

It took me until last week to find a couple of hours where I could do nothing but sit and wait for my nails to dry.

I've never taken very good care of my feet. I love going barefoot and have built up callouses to the point where I could probably walk across broken glass without being injured. I'm not too impressed by those guys who walk across hot coals, because I can walk barefoot across Fort Lauderdale Beach at high noon and feel no pain.

Something had to change. My heels were so rough, they actually snagged my pantyhose. My toenails were split and nasty. And summer in SoFla -- as they call it -- is made for sandals. I couldn't have my coworkers eyeballing my ragged toes.

As I entered the salon, I wondered if the manicurist would have to use a sandblaster on me. She was a short, skinny, older woman and didn't appear to be any match for my feet. I swallowed my pride and told her the situation. "Look," I said. "I know this gift certificate says $25 for both a manicure and pedicure, but I'd be willing to put the whole thing toward my feet. They're in terrible condition." Patty the Manicurist leaned back in her chair, steeling herself for what was coming next. "Let me see them," she said.

I slid off my sandals, and she looked at my tootsies with a practiced eye.

"Well, there's only so much we can do in one session," she said.

Ouch.

I should have given Patty more credit. That woman is little, but she's wiry. She soaked my feet for about half an hour and then sanded them like they were valuable antiques lying beneath several coats of old paint. I walked out with a fresh coat of toenail polish and a resolve to continue her efforts at home.

I bought an expensive foot scrubber for the shower -- "Fired in the brick ovens of Pakistan," the label bragged -- and some peppermint scented foot lotion. I have to push my cats away to keep them from licking it off, which freaks me out. Maybe I should let them. Their tongues ARE kind of sandpaperish.

I feel so good about my SoFla-like feet, I believe I may have misjudged the locals about their other "plastic fantastic" traits. Maybe there's something to be said for looking your best and not being ashamed to show other people what you've got.

That's it. I'm shopping for thongs.

Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Contact her at newsduo@herald.infi.net.