Yesterday I spent the day immersed in the very plastic world of Orange County. For some of you, this is no big deal. Maybe you're a part of that world, maybe you've had a little "work" done yourself, maybe you hate all things plastic, or maybe you just wish you could have a few elective surgeries done.
I have always seen plastic people walking around everywhere, but I've never been a part of their world. Everything I encounter in Plastic World keeps surprising me, but then I wonder why? I suppose I've just never spent time thinking about being surrounded by plastic surgery run rampant.
I was at the plastic surgeon's office first thing in the morning for my "pre-op" appointment. I mentally evaluated every person I encountered.
As I waited, a young woman (about 20) sat near me. We both filled out form after form and I couldn't help but wonder, "Why is she here?"
She was thin, she was beautiful … and yet, she clearly was there to change something about her appearance she isn't happy with.
Are women ever happy with their appearance?
At what point do we accept ourselves for what and who we are?
Another woman wandered in discussing the facelift she will be having next week. I looked at her and again, wondered why. She didn't look much over 40 and she was attractive. No, she didn't look twenty anymore, but she looked good. She was animated and excited about her prospective surgery.
A man walked through the waiting area with heavy dark glasses on. Clearly, he'd recently had his eyes done.
An older woman arrived next. She must have been in her seventies and she was (in my opinion) a mess. She was clearly a case of someone trying way too hard. Huge fake eyelashes, a recent facelift, recent laser surgery on her skin, too much makeup and her body was old, soft, overweight and looked its age. The face and body didn't look right together. Having a ton of work on your face doesn't cancel out the fact that you are now an old lady.
Later in the day I saw an even older woman as I left. Again, I stopped and wondered … if we can't accept ourselves when we are sixty, seventy or eighty … will we ever? We all want to look our best, but isn't a part of that simply being at peace with where we are in life?
I ended up spending hours upon hours at the office. I had "before" pictures taken of my naked boobs. That was a little awkward. They like to get shots of them at every angle so I kept turning this way and that. At one point I thought they just might swing around and hit someone in the face, knocking them out. Never underestimate the power of DD breasts!
I got all the nitty gritty details about the surgery and recovery. I'm going to be very honest here, all those details scared the crap out of me. Talking in the abstract about having smaller boobs and the relief that will bring to my shoulder and neck is one thing. Hearing about the post-surgery drains I will have in my breasts for several days and the process itself is quite another.
I even asked the doctor if he could just wave a magic wand over me and be done with it.
He finds me amusing ….
Doctors always do, why is that?
My biggest fear is that I'll start mumbling on drugs and ask the dog about Slippery and Buttery Nipples. (Both are cocktails, by the way.) I have this fear I'll start rambling and offer him a drink of a Nipple just prior to going under for the surgery.
I had to sign a bazillion forms. Basically, if I wake up with a breast sewn onto my foot I have no legal recourse. (Although, think how enjoyable foot massages will become!) I signed so many forms it was ridiculous. I was given a list of post surgery supplies to buy. I was given some vitamins and herbs too. They're supposed to expedite healing.
In the Plastic World, appearance is, of course, of the utmost importance. I came out of my car accident surgeries beat to hell and bruised all over from the surgeons. Plastic surgeons don't want their patients to look bad. In addition to a regimen of vitamins and specific herbs, they have me wearing a blood pressure patch for the next two weeks. I don't have high blood pressure, but by lowering it I will supposedly heal faster with less bleeding and bruising.
We want the new smaller boobs to look pretty right away I suppose.
I thought I'd never get done with my appointment. The doc even wanted to discuss what can and can't happen with my shoulder and PT in the weeks after my breast surgery. How much do you want to bet he and The Torturer will be chatting before this is all over? Medical people love to have me as their special project.
Then I was off for blood work, followed by a visit to The Plastic Surgery Center.
Several doctors work out of the same center. I was required to register for my surgery. A young woman came in after me. As she opened the door a gust of wind accompanied her. I looked up, and, I swear, her over-collagened lips started flapping in the wind. I've never seen such a disturbing sight.
On my way home I stopped to purchase Hanes front zipping sports bras. Apparently this is what I have to wear for the next several weeks. There was a problem though. They were out of every color except neon purple. THAT should look nice under my clothes ….
I ended my day of surgery related crap by stopping into the pharmacy to pick up all the drugs they want me to take post-surgery. I overheard the assistant pharmacist say, "This prescription is from a plastic surgeon. If she can afford plastic surgery she can afford to pay full price for her prescriptions."
What did you say bitch?
Apparently the 20-something year old bitch didn't want to inconvenience herself by billing my insurance. Her comment really irked me. I'm sure she's tired of Money Town women, but she is an employee at a Money Town pharmacy. My insurance is paying for this because it has been deemed a "medical necessity."
As I went to pick up the prescriptions my inner bitch came out. I intentionally made her feel like shit by saying, "These will be covered by my insurance. I was terribly disfigured in a horrible car accident and I'm having the damage repaired next week."
You should have seen the look on her face.
© Twenty Four At Heart