This week I’m going to meet my plastic surgeon. He’ll sit across from me and we’ll exchange pleasantries in his office. Softly, he will review my case. His bedside manner is impeccable and I am grateful for his quite attentiveness and gentle sense of humour.
Once again, I will look at him wondering how such an astounding biography comes from such a regular looking man. As usual he will be wearing his white lab coat, and as usual I will be wearing my black knee high boots. He will be dressed for healing, and I will be dressed for battle.
I can’t afford to feel vulnerable. My black leather boots have a low heel, which allows me walk in long purposeful strides (More RCMP than dominatrix, but with a bit of elegant hardware around he ankle). They zip over my jeans, and tightly hug my calves so the power shoots upward. I look relatively polished and ready to jump on a horse.
Neither stocking feet nor big clumsy winter boots are appropriate for my appointments. I need to be able to hop up on the table and cross my ankles with precision. The fact that I’ll be wearing a blue and white striped wrap round hospital gown, or, a bare-naked top isn’t important. From the knees down, I am invincible.
We have some very important matters to discuss. Namely, surgery. He’s got the upper hand here since he’s got degrees from a wide variety of highly acclaimed international medical institutions, and has the skill to reconnect tiny blood vessels under a microscope. I, on the other hand, can barely rip off my own band-aid.
But we will sit face to face and calmly discuss how to rebuild me. At some point he will look at my boobies, and probably even touch them. At some point I will look down and compare our footwear.. He will be wearing his casual brown Merrell multi sport hyperbolic slip on shoes with a rounded toe that look like curled up hampsters.
My gleaming GEOX riding boots could kick his little fuzzy Merrell ass. But there is no battle and there is no opponent. Here we are all on the same team.