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        I never thought I’d see the inside of a plastic surgeon’s office.  This one had a bit of a spa-like feel to it. All the employees had headsets to communicate with each other, which was a little weird because the receptionist in the front dictated everything that I did… “Mrs Hawthorne finished signing the documents…Mrs Hawthorne just paid her copay….” all while holding the little microphone dangling from her headset so that it was closer to her mouth, like she needed to make sure the people on the other end heard every syllable.  

        I guess I was taking too long because at one point, the receptionist got on the phone with her son Hudson’s after-school program.  She wants to keep Mondays and Wednesdays, even though it looks like Wednesdays are busy at work and she’d really like to stay at work later those days, impeding her ability to pick up Hudson.  I had finished signing everything, so she seemed to speed up the call a bit… “No, just keep Mondays and Wednesdays…”  She hung up the phone and then turned to me, explaining to me how Hudson is 7 and in this afterschool program down the street. She’ll be 36 when he’s 18.  She repeated that a few times.  Grandma and Grandpa take him three days a week.  I guess they’ll be picking him up on Wednesdays.  I got the whole run-down.

        The nurse took me back to the exam room finally.  She handled our conversation very delicately.  It felt like she was expecting me to cry or moan or worry or something.  But I was my comfortable-in-my-discomfortable self as always. She commented on how positive my attitude is and she’s glad that I’m still cheerful.  After asking a bunch of health questions, she gave me a gown and left the room.

        Man, paper clothes sound really loud in an exam room.  Especially in one with tall echoey ceilings.  On top of that, the nurse was a soft-talker, so it was hard to catch everything she said. For the most part, I heard “breasts were beautiful” with her sexy Spanish accent as she told me stories from “happy” clients.  One story included a misguided compliment, where a friend of a breast cancer survivor told her she was “lucky.”  It was because she now has beautiful boobs. I guess that’s something to look forward to…?

        When the doctor entered the exam room, I was surprised to see a giant bodyguard walk in.  Then I realized he was the doctor!  I don’t know why it threw me off that he’s built like a linebacker, but for some reason it makes me feel a little safer–like I’m in good hands (suddenly I hear Beavis & Butthead laughing, “She said hands–huhhuh. She’s talking about boobies huhhuh.”)  

        After the doctor did measurements and recommendations (apparently there are three types of options, each with their own ups and downs–he’s recommending the simplest procedure with the least amount of recovery time, given my circumstances, which sounds good to me), he left me alone with his nurse so she could take photos.

        His nurse said she was going to grab one of the implants from the exam room next door so that I could feel what it’s like.  When she came back into the room, she said, “Think fast!” and tossed a jiggly silicon implant at me.  “Oh yeah, wow,” I say.  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.

        Almost every time a woman tells me that they have implants, there’s a pretty good chance that at some point they will goad me into seeing and/or feeling them.  This visit to the plastic surgeon was no different.  Apparently the doctor’s nurse is not ONLY his nurse, she’s also his client. 

        Almost in one-fell swoop, she lifted her shirt and pulled her bra down.  Like pulling the rip-cord on a parachute.  Just voi-la!!  Alrighty, then.  I guess we’re doing this.  She said, “sure–go ahead and feel them!”  Poke, poke.  “Oh yeah, wow,” I say.  Apparently that’s my go-to when I’m at a loss for words.  It’s my automatic response in an extremely weird situation.  I hand her back the implant.   

        She leaned against the counter behind her with her ankles crossed, boobs out, tossing the implant from hand to hand like it was nothing.  She continued the conversation, describing the procedure, just leisurely.  Eventually she returned her body parts to their rightful spaces and we concluded the appointment.  Their people are going to call my people.  My people will arrange with their people.  They’ll do lunch.

        So I still don’t have a surgery scheduled, but they’re working on it.  Lots of moving pieces.  Lots of hurry up and wait.  In the meantime, I wonder if I'll become adept at whipping my girlies out.  Well, at least the one.