Samantha was the first person I thought of this morning.
That is, fictional Samantha, from Sex in the City. There is an episode where
she contemplates plastic surgery, and at her visit to the surgeon’s office, he
draws on her with a black marker.
I remember watching that scene about twelve years ago (and
more recently on DVD) and thinking how barbaric it looked. I also remember
clearly thinking ‘ I will never do that’. And apparently she thought so too
– and ran out of the office into the waiting arms of her girlfriends and a
frosty martini.
But I am doing it! Every time I think I have all the details
covered, I drudge up another disturbing fact. Here’s today’s fun fact; I have
to stand naked in front of my surgeon, while he scribbles on my tummy. And from
what I’ve seen on TV – it’s not very scientific. It’s like a football coach
scrawling on the blackboard, mapping out the next attack. Only, I am the
blackboard, and there’s no chalk – it’s a Sharpie.
I know from experience, that I might buckle at the knees. I
did that when I stood in front of him last time, and he squished my belly as
though I was an avocado. That wasn’t scientific either. He was checking to see
if I had enough tummy to make two new breasts – and it was just squish squish squish,
followed by, ‘Okay. That’s good.’
So yesterday I called the Dr H’s office in a panic, to ask
when the doodling would take place.
‘6 am. On the day of your surgery’.
Oh my God. Bring on Belleruth. If Samantha couldn’t do it –
I don’t stand a chance! I’m going to need some courage, as well as my magical
friends and allies. I try to remember that there are some things that can’t be
controlled. The big black Sharpie is out of my hands, and in the small hands of
a talented surgeon.
And then there are the things that I can control. I can’t
follow Sam’s footsteps out of the office, but until that time – in 19 days - it’s
girlfriends and frosty martinis.
