I apparently look like a woman who wants a boob job. Not a woman needing a boob job. Wanting one.
I was at the gyno’s office this week for your favorite thing and mine, the pap smear. The baby doctor’s office is an elite club where to feel like a VIP you have to be gestating. All the pap smears, bladder infections and indelicate discharges can wait in the back like Ben E. Keith deliverymen. Preggers is princess.
But my doctor is great. I really love her. The one beef I have is she wears the same necklace all the time — not a locket or a cross or a warning of her drug allergy, just a pretty silver piece of costume jewelry, like it’s from Coldwater Creek. I have no problem with this inherently. I spent much of college wearing a faux mother-of-pearl medallion that might have mistaken for a wench’s bobble. I thought it was cool and “vintage” before Anthropologie made it OK to look mismatched and sad.
But I DID NOT WEAR IT EVERY DAY.
She was asking about how I was feeling post-baby. I told her fine, tired, and that my boobs were in a sad state of affairs. You must understand anytime I discuss my breasts with people in outer spheres of acquaintance it’s strictly to be thought funny. But she jumped on that train of thought like it was a locomotive heading for Fiji.
“That’s why they invented plastic surgeons!”
Was she joking? She said it with conviction.
She went on: “Are you thinking of having more kids? I would recommend being sure you’re done before pursuing that.”
Had I asked? Had I indicated I would be “pursuing that?” Was there a sign on my boobs that said, “For the love of God, put us out of our misery…or send in reinforcements!”
I enjoy reading Fort Worth, TX magazine. One reason is to check out the real estate listings. I’m a house junkie. The other reason is me like pretty pictures. The drawback is all the advertisements for plastic surgeons that make me feel 20 pounds heavier instantly. They usually involve 19-year-olds posing with their adorable midrift exposed, like they’re barely just surviving their own sexiness.
Last week I was flipping through Fort Worth, TX when I came across a picture of my doctor advertising her practice with her colleagues. They all looked great. Old Coldwater Creek necklace was front and center, as usual. I wondered if being next to plastic surgeons in an uppity magazine made my doctor feel like one of “the magazine doctor gang.” Like maybe she started thinking to herself, hey, I can deliver your baby, then we will immediately roll you down the hallway — still strung to the epidural like a woozy marionette – for a little refresher course in what it means to look female. My colleagues will take the sad sack of flesh you once called your torso and shape it, as one shapes clay, into an approximate human form. What a great partnership this could be! Look at what we can do: cut your nose off, sew it to your chest, blast it with lasers to look pore-less and tan, and charge a-stupid-bazillion dollars for it! Oh yea, and you get a baby out of the deal, too. A one-stop shop for procreation and re-creation!
I don’t know what you think about plastic surgery. You might consider it “reconstructive” if it’s to put you back together post-baby. I think I agree. I’m not saying that I’m “pursuing it,” but I will raise a margarita to you if you decide to take the plunge. (If only to show you how to lift your arms again.)
I realize some of you might think plastic surgery is not something Jesus-people should do. You tell your daughters before bed that God made them just the way they are and that they don’t need to change their bodies in any way to be beautiful. I think that’s valuable. I will say those things to Madeline too. And then I will make an appointment with Dr. Cho to get my teeth whitened, visit Mary to dye my roots, swing by the MAC counter to pretend I like charcoal makeup with a liquidy quality, and then accost Jessica Simpson for some of her killer wedges.
Is plastic surgery that much more of a step?