Free The Bed Moved by Rebecca Schiff Page A

your vagina,” so I sent it in. It got a two. Warts.
    They sent it back with the warts removed. At a doctor’s office, uninsured, the procedure would have cost an arm and a leg. I sent those in, too. My raters shaved my legs and spray-tanned them. They won’t tan anymore in the real sun.
    My face got a four point five.
    My second face got a six. My raters rated my parts in a converted strip mall by the sea. They hung up a sign that said “Rate Me” over a sign that had said “Oceanside Shoe Repair.” Also, it was more than just rating. They laid cool cloth across my brow, extracted blackheads, taught me that my armpits might be expendable. They trimmed split ends. They dyed my hair.
    “Who needs armpits, girl?” I said to a man applying foil packets to my head.
    “I’m straight,” he said.
    “Can I ask you out, then?”
    “I’d prefer you didn’t do that,” he said. “My last date with a face was a disaster. A nine, but when she climaxed, a low seven.”
    —
    WHAT CONSTITUTED PERFECTION? Nobody at Rate Me would explain. They sent back my arms with a long rubric—softness, muscle tone, strokeability. I had low squeeze factor, a weak hug. My rater advised practice with friends or family members before I advanced to hugging members of the gender that scared me.
    —
    MY FEET actually had a good shot at a ten, though the toenail fungus was a problem. I treated the yellow nails with a polish, prescribed by the famous in-house doctor, Dr. Rater. Dr. Rater had founded RateMyMD, and Do You Think I’m a Hypochondriac??? Girls with lupus, fibromyalgia, questionable freckles, gathered in a former sporting goods warehouse, eyed the white coat, grew new moles on the spot. Dr. Rater made a show of not taking advantage.
    —
    MY VAGINA couldn’t break five. I consulted with a vulva adviser, who told me, “I haven’t seen this much bush since I went to uni.” He wasn’t Australian, either. He was Something American, his ancestors had once peddled shoes, and he wasn’t afraid to hurt a client’s feelings. Body hair in unwanted areas was an easy fix, according to Rate Me’s brochures. Rate Me eschewed razors and wax—too messy—and went straight for the latest in radiation hair removal. When I got my vagina back from them, rated, irradiated, they’d put it in a satin box with a note telling me that I was now eligible to dine with other top-rated members, and a gift card that said “Ratings Addict.”
    —
    “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” asked my friend with self-confidence.
    “I want to improve,” I said. “I want my vagina to improve.”
    She didn’t bother handing me a vagina mirror or making me read a self-confidence book. She had too much confidence for that. If we’d been reversed, and she’d been sending her nose to get evaluated, I would have gotten her a book, talked to her about talking to someone besides me.
    “I need therapy,” I said. “But without insurance, I can’t really afford it.”
    “You know you’re great,” she said in a depressed voice. “You should stop worrying about your pores and start reading again.”
    “I read. My pores are enlarged, but I read.”
    “I read, too,” she said.
    —
    YOU COULD USE A GIFT CARD for a plasty. Rhinoplasty. Labiaplasty. The surgeon’s catalog showed ten after perfect ten. Puffed labia were yesterday’s labia. Today’s labia dipped in. A group of raters resigned over the gift cards. They left a note tacked to a kiosk that said “Plastic surgeons are BUYING your raters off. Those of us who went into the rating profession to let women know the truth about themselves are disgusted and saddened by the corrupt influence of these so-called doctors. To that end, we must bid you sevens adieu. We’re starting a company called Natural Ratings for women who find beauty in the way they were born but still want to be a better version of themselves for the sense of well-being being better brings.”
    “One-to-ten is done,” they added. “We’re