Plastics

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Let me tell you a story. This is a fun one about me visiting my plastic surgeon for the first time. Add that to the list of things I never thought I’d say.

Let me preface this by noting that while I would love a magic wand that could nip here and tuck there, I would likely never have sought out plastic surgery in my life if not for my current situation. When the alternative is deformity, I’ll give the guy a chance.

Frank and I sat in the waiting room filled with beautiful, serene ocean images, while I signed forms indicating whether I would allow my nude photos to be used for marketing purposes. Hard pass.

Then we were led to the examination room. This is where the real fun begins. I was handed a gown and paper underwear. It was a real shame those babies were disposable because they made me feel so attractive. Picture this. A black, elastic-string number that couldn’t decide if it was a bikini fit or a thong, so it landed somewhere in between. 

Why did I have to wear this pair of lovely one-size-fits-most paper black underwear you ask? So I could get full body photos in the round, of course. Like from all the angles. And I kept turning the wrong way, so mine took longer. Sigh.

When I walked back into that exam room, I told Frank they better not make me look at those photos. Like ever. If I have to see all that, I may be tempted to return to this office for some future elective procedures. I guess that is a good business strategy…

Then the doc came in. My plastic surgeon (so weird to say!). He said he’d examine me quickly and then I could change so we’d be on an even playing field to chat. It was like a tale of two doctors. When I was in the gown, I was an object to mold. A skin bag filled with fat and tissue. Then when I was dressed, I was human again. I don’t say this with any level of negativity. When he’s fixing my body, I want him to be hyper-focused on the parts fitting back together again. 

Discussing my options was a game I like to call, “pick your scar.” Truly I am lucky to have options. And scars are cool, right? I also appreciated my doctor’s frustration toward the idea that many women are often given only one option. 

I left my plastic surgeon’s office wearing my own underwear, thank you very much, with a decision to make, and knowing I am in good hands. His words, “There is no bad decision here.”

I have a great team. I am lucky. And, no, they didn’t make me look at any of those 360-black-bikini/thong-in-the-round photos.