(I will get into the specifics as the day of surgery arrives, but for now, suffice to say that I believe that cosmetic surgery should only be used to subtract and normalise, not to turn into a Jocelyn Wildenstein freak. Google that name and be prepared to be horrified.)
Since I'm very paranoid about being on-time, I wound up getting there too early and spending some time in the waiting room. What a cast of characters! It was a therapist's wet dream:
- A man dressed straight out of the Lands End catalogue, who got increasingly more uncomfortable as time wore on and he realised that he had no reading material, and therefore might be forced to read Blender or Radar.
- A loud abrasive and spoiled high school or college student. (I know I'm getting old, since they are all beginning to look the same) She dropped her cell phone and nasally made a joke to the very charming and level-headed receptionist saying "you didn't call, like, Bangladesh, or something?" She was accompanied by a bleach blond friend who stayed on her own cell phone the whole entire time. It makes me wonder how terrified they must be to actually deal with someone face-to-face.
- A flaming red-headed woman in the throes of middle age, but desperately trying hold onto a youth that has long since left her. She name-dropped P. Diddy and other big social names while caressing her face to smooth out wrinkles that the Botox didn't hit. Once she sat down, she started typing away on her Sidekick like her life depended on aping Paris Hilton.
- A man in a business suit, trying to act all tough and masculine, but appearing like he was just constipated.
- And then there's me: Sitting in the corner, flashing bare ankle (the second Spring comes, off go my socks) and trying to write without bursting into laughter.
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