Yesterday was my first “day off” from physical activity in 15 days. I haven’t planned rest days at all this summer on the theory that I am not working any one body part the same way on any two consecutive days, and so, any need to rest will rear its head when it does, without my machinations.
As such, no rest day was planned yesterday. But there were a few things that I had to do, and as I did them, the list only multiplied. Hate that. Namely, my root-canaled tooth has stopped being nice and silent and has instead begun to make me aware of its presence again. A little twang here. A radiating ache to my cheekbone there. It occurred to me sometime over the weekend that I hope to live a long life, and that I don’t wish for this tooth to be so “out loud” for the duration.
And so I found myself at Dr. L, my trusty friend and dentist. Alas, there is nothing more that he can do for me, and so he sent me onto see an oral surgeon. Three hours later, I am now one surgery away from a tooth extraction. Dr. L assures me that if it comes to that, he will have an implant at the ready so that I don’t have to spend any time walking around looking like I just came to visit from Appalachia.
That was a long afternoon, and stressful. I had some palpitations later that kept me awake. I knew what it was though, which helped it to stop more quickly. I always had such good teeth. This is shocking and horrifying to me that if the next surgery doesn’t work, I will have to schedule an extraction.
All of this has led me to mentally run from the reconstruction-revision-revision plans. That, plus the fact that I discovered these fabulous bras that make me look…totally normal. And my beef isn’t so much with how I look naked but how I look in clothes and even in underwear. So, my latest verdict on Reconstruction.3 is that I will wait a year – a solid year in which I make it my business to always wear the appropriate foundation – and then see if I am still so unhappy with Reconstruction.2.
I mean, truthfully, Recon.3 could look great in clothing. But naked, I will resemble Frankenstein…sewed up patches of skin making up the whole. If that’s the case, then…why? Well, apart from the butt-lift that goes with the whole procedure…yes….this time, the new boobs would be made from flesh under my seat, and then the shark-bites would be hidden by lifting up the whole thing.
Essentially, I would be living the dream, ladies: take some fat off the butt and put it on the chest. And while you’re at it, lift me to the butt-shape of a 20-year old.
But while I have never had THIS surgery before, I have had ENOUGH surgeries to know, and have carefully observed enough starlets in the tabloids to know, that no matter WHAT you do, no matter WHO your surgeon is, you never truly end up looking like what you had hoped to look like. There are always scars. There are always signs that this wasn’t natural. Maybe it looks better than it did before, but it doesn’t have a shot of looking like the natural ideal of beauty which you tried not to but couldn’t help but envision.
So, after nine hours of surgery, two micro-vascular surgeons, 10 weeks of recovery, maybe I would have (a) the same butt as I have now, minus the equivalent of two AA-cup breasts, plus a bit of a youthful lift (which no one in their right mind has ever suggested that I need, not even me while standing in a dressing room amid a pile of bikinis), and (b) two size 32 AA “frankenboobs”…patched onto my chest amid hundreds of stitches (read: future scars).
And for what? To see it fail again? To see my breasts flatten if I inadvertently lose three pounds? To see my breasts get dented if some of the tissue transferred dies, which COULD happen?
Who am I trying to convince here?
I really am not up for this. And I am HAPPY to know that it is MY decision, not some asshole doctor who I met with briefly last summer. In fact, the doctor I met with this summer is super-nice and willing to take all the time in the world to let me decide. And he welcomes the opportunity to do the work, unlike the other assface from last year. And he has a well-respected partner, one for each boob. Cool, eh?
So, the plan is to keep it under advisement…wear a good bra…and wait and see. And perhaps next summer I will just have my implants swapped out, scar tissue cleaned up. Or perhaps I will find that the good bras don’t solve my issues as I hoped they wood, and that I hate my ass, and it’s time for “IGAP Flap Reconstruction”, as it is called.
I like that I am willing to wait. I see this as an improvement on previous impulsive behaviors of mine from the past.
As for the title, the action addiction…well, turns out that that wasn’t what I was interested in writing about at all. Suffice it to say that resting is difficult for me. It leaves me rest-less. Happy to be back in the swing again today.