I did 10 Sun Salutations and then had to start chauffeuring around. It was suburban-driving hell. No, wait, this wouldn’t happen in a normal suburbs where things are close to each other. This was sub-suburban driving hell. Rural-regional driving hell.
Anyway, I had another window and decided that I needed to prune some perennials and that I would just take the day off from yoga and start again tomorrow. I did feel a lot better after the pruning. I think the need for pruning was weighing on me. All that rain has really desicrated my gardens, leaving the peonies lying all over the ground (I knew that was coming though), the mop-head hydrangeas mopping the dirt, and the weeds…oh, the weeds…they have gone steroidal. And then, some perennials grow like weeds, like, for example, Montauk Daisies. They bloom at the tail end of the summer, and up until then, they grow and grow and grow and can get up to two feet tall or more (daisies, remember, so that’s kind of weird to be so tall). Anyway, the Montauk Daisies that border my back garden were beginning to remind me of the garden equivalent of an 80’s hair band, so basically, I just gave em a flat top.
Problem solved. They really look quite spiffy. Kind of like my kids with their buzz cuts. Something powerful about a well-shorn head, be it a human head or a plant head.
Even though the pruning made me feel less cranky and out of sorts, still, something is weighing on me. And let me just say, it is a good problem to have. But it sucks anyway. It’s my boobs. Lately, I’ve been getting the feeling that they are getting worse – flatter, more striated with muscle, more misshapen and pulled by scar tissue. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I was certain that there was a strapless bra that made me look good only a couple of months ago. And now, that bra just kind of sits there and does nothing. In fact, all of my bras are too big on me now. Where did my boobs go?
I can only surmise that it is the yoga. The pulling and stretching. And there is no way that I want to stop the yoga. I remember last summer when a doctor had the audacity to suggest as much. Asshole.
I’m really honestly kind of depressed about this.
And I’ve begun to toy with the idea of having the implants removed and having all the scar tissues eradicated and just going with pre-pubescent flat-chested. Ribs and nibs, minus the nibs, I guess. Or, maybe with. Who knows.
I can’t go back to Dr. S, the one who did the silicone reconstruction a few years ago. He really offended me, and I don’t want to get into that. I don’t care if he is a good plastic surgeon. Bedside manner matters to me. Besides, maybe he isn’t such a good plastic surgeon for me – his work ultimately failed on me, after all.
I could go back to Dr. A, not because I necessarily want him to do the re-re-reconstruction. But because I think it might be useful, and kind of low-stress, for me to return to the original doctor who was there at the very very very beginning of all this. He was the one who gave me the original saline implants. He was present at the original surgery giving rise to the need for the implants. So, a consult with him might be useful with regard to removal of the scar tissue and at least achieving a smoother result. Plus, I can bitch to him freely, since I know him for a long time, or at least I did. It might also be fun to just turn up at his office: alive.
Wow, I feel better having just gotten all that off my chest, er, to have expressed all that turmoil.
Monday. I will call Monday. Now that I have this resolved in my head, I need to do it now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But Monday will have to do.