PS visit, take two
Well, last week, I drove to Carmel for a non-existent plastic surgeon’s appointment.
To be fair to myself, the appointment existed at one time. It most definitely existed on a little card that I carried around in my purse – a little card that had been handed to me by the lovely British receptionist in my plastic surgeon’s office. However, at some point in the last month, English Emily called my house and rescheduled said appointment. She did not, mind you, drive to my house and hand me a new little card to carry around in my purse with the new date and time on it. If she had, I might not have wasted my time driving 45 minutes from my house to see a plastic surgeon who was on a trip to Cancun (I’m sure).
Obviously, last week’s blunder was Emily’s fault. Try not to blame her. She barely speaks our language.
So, the real appointment is tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to it. Now, I have double-anxiety because I already got my anxiety level up last week for an appointment that didn’t happen. I have successfully maintained this anxiety level for the last several days, but am increasing it gradually as the countdown to tomorrow continues.
It should be a good appointment. I predict that I will burst into tears as soon as I see the bag of saline they intend to put into my poor, sore, fake boobie.
I can not imagine the sleepless nights ahead with the extra salt water pumped into that silicone bag under my skin. This sucker is already rock hard. What comes after that? Granite hard? Diamond hard? Titanium hard?
I have no need for a titanium hard breast.
Speaking of plastic surgeons, if I hear the local commercial on the radio one more time promoting breast enlargements for women, I’m going to drive to Dr. V.N.’s office (not my plastic surgeon) and share my thoughts on this subject. Those thoughts might start with something like, “Stop trying to make women feel bad about themselves” and end with storming out screaming something eloquent like, “I HATE YOU!”