I got cosmetic surgery today.
I did not get my face pulled back into a bun (although who knows, that might come next). But there was this thing, this unsightly pallid lump the size of a pencil eraser, on my collarbone. You know, it could have been anywhere on my body and I wouldn’t have cared, but on my collarbone – no. Because, I have always had a secret crush on my clavicle: its strong delicacy, its elegant sweep like the cutout in a violin. This insult will not be sustained.
The thing (in fact, a cyst) annoyed me for about a year until I got the idea. I resolved that as a birthday gift to self, it goes. BCMed won’t pay for the procedure—it is cosmetic, not cancerous. OK fine I’ll pay for it. Happy birthday to me!
And then hey while I’m at it, that small bump near the corner of my mouth, in what would otherwise be a dimple. I’ve been staring at that offense in the mirror for 10 years and that is long enough.
Oh yeah, and the little one on my back that I’m always terrified of scratching off. That one too.
All three, for a not-paltry but not-outlandish amount of dollars. I’m in.
I made the appointment and biked to the minimal yet tastefully appointed storefront. The doctor was very nice. A little local anesthetic, no muss, no fuss. 15 minutes and I’m out.
The thing is that while clearly I have my vanities, I don’t care that much about how I look. What seems to matter is that today three little things which I carried, and which no longer serve me, are gone.
I haven’t taken the three discreet bandaids off the spots yet, but I feel lighter already. I’ll have a little scab on my face for a bit. There might be a teensy scar, but I figure a scar is better than casting a shadow. I signed the waiver.