this is for sophia
March 24, 2013
A friend of mine was going into a plastic surgery clinic to talk to them about removing a tattoo. It was a really big tattoo. She was pretty nervous about it, too, so she called me a lot. Then her appointment was set and she called and said, The appointment is set!
I made this joke, Oh cool, ask if they can give me a boob job.
My friend said, Hold on!
Ten minutes later the phone rang and she said, You have an appointment!
My friend clearly really needed someone to go in with her, so I did. Which resulted in me sitting on an examining table wearing some sort of unfortunate paper garment instead of a shirt.
We were two dumb teenagers from fucked up homes who didn’t know how to say, Hey I’m scared would you come with me to my doctor’s appointment? Or, Hey, you sound scared, would you like me to come with you to your doctor’s appointment?
So there I am wearing a paper vest instead of a shirt.
Then the doctor arrives.
He’s a mess. His complexion is pasty. He is overweight. In a sort of pasty out of shape this guy really needs to hit a gym and lay off the greasy carbs way. His clothes do not fit. His shirt is wrinkled to the point I am trying to figure out if it is miss-buttoned or just really that ill fitting and wrinkled. I am staring at this guy thinking, This guy is in the business of making people beautiful? And he shoves aside my unfortunate paper shirt and stabs my breast with his index finger and says, “Yes, we can fix these.”
Let’s not talk about how close this man came to death in that examining room.
There are times in life when something becomes rock solid for you. One of those times for me was the time some asshole who couldn’t button his own shirt or wash his own hair poked my breast and said it was “broken” — that was the day I knew I would never, ever, get a boob job.
*This is for Sophia. Don’t listen to people ever who say something is broken when it isn’t.