The next day, I wake up cursing the trainer. I can hardly move my legs. I wish he'd had me stretch. I'm sore and swollen for the next few days. Unfortunately, there's no time to wallow in my aching muscular pain. I have another doctor's appointment to go to. This time, we're talking rhinoplasty.
A few words about my nose: It's extremely cute. When I mentioned to someone I was thinking about a nose job, his response was, "Why? You have a perfect nose."
And it's true. People get nose jobs to get my nose. But it is crooked (though most people don't notice until I force them to stare at it for a while). To be honest, I'd never change it, even if someone else was willing to pay for the $8,000 surgery.
I booked my appointment with a doctor known around town for his facial work. He does nothing but reconstruct and change faces, and from what I hear, he's the best. I figured if anyone could talk me into hating my nose, it would be this guy.
At his office, I grab pamphlets for every procedure they offer: nasal surgery, eyelid lift, chin implant, and so on. I laugh to myself when I see the chin-implant guide.
"Who would get a chin implant?" I ask in my head. "That is so, so weird."
I'm picturing an army of large-breasted Jay Lenos.
I also grab the brochure for permanent makeup. I'm slightly disturbed by the answer provided under the heading, "Does it hurt?"
"Most people find the method very relaxing," it says.
I'm not sure how that's possible. Having eyeliner tattooed on seems like pretty much the least relaxing thing I can think of.
When I'm called into the doctor's office, I'm offered water and chocolate. I decline the candy. My legs are still aching from my session with the trainer, and all I can think about is my calorie intake.
I didn't get to meet the breast implant or Lipodissolve doctors face-to-face, and this is the first plastic surgeon I've shaken hands with. He is exactly what you expect a plastic surgeon to be: good-looking, strong handshake, polite but cocky. He's Christian from Nip/Tuck.
We talk about my nose, and he agrees it's crooked. He thinks he can fix it by breaking it in several places and realigning the bones around it. He informs me that the angle between the bottom of my nose and my lips is perfect it's the exact shape they strive for during surgery.
But before I can gloat about the superb angles of my face, the doc informs me I need a chin implant.
Since my teenage years, I've carefully recorded my faults. If pressed, I can tell you everything I don't like about myself, from my eyebrows down to my long second toe. But my chin never made the list.
The doctor tells me it's weak, and an implant will make my profile much stronger. He illustrates this on the computer. I sort of see what he's talking about in the "before" picture, but I think the "after" implant picture makes me look a little witchy. (And it would cost about $2,500 a discounted price for getting it with the nose job.)
The "after" picture of my nose doesn't look any different. It still looks crooked to me.
I touch my chin, trying to picture a little ball of implant in it, and tell the doctor I'd like to think about it. He agrees, I shouldn't rush into anything. Then he mentions there are several skin-care specialists on his staff. Would I care for a complimentary consultation?
My skin is a touchy subject. It's probably my worst feature, thanks to a rough bout of acne that began when I was 12. It looks okay now, but just okay. I agree to talk to one of his specialists just to get the doctor out of the room before he talks me into an eyebrow lift or cheek implants.
I'm sent to talk finances with his office manager. I much prefer her to the doctor. She informs me that she had a chin implant a couple of years ago.
"A lot of people leave the office with a complex because they never thought about it before," she tells me.
I use my now-perfected talking-it-over-with-Daddy line, book an appointment for a skin consult, and get the hell out of there.
During the whole drive home, I stare at my chin in the rearview mirror.