Insane is exactly how I feel at the moment. I am trying to find my last appointment, and from the second I got in my car today, I've been trying to come up with excuses to miss it.
I never want to see the inside of a doctor's office again. I don't want to fill out any more forms. I don't want to pretend to care about procedures I don't want or need. Right now, I really just want a nap and a car that can fly, because Shea is really backed up.
Somehow, I force myself to the office.
But it's the wrong one. Oh, it's a plastic surgeon you can't throw a rock in north Scottsdale without hitting a plastic surgeon's office it's just the wrong plastic surgeon's office.
I'm staring at the building directory, trying to figure out where I am and whether I just drove to the wrong place. Letters swirl in front of me: FACS, DDS, OB-GYN, MD, PhD, CPPC, BSN, MC. This is a building full of people with a lot of degrees who make a lot of money.
One title stands out to me: PSYCHIATRIST.
I feel like I need one right now.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored window. Even though it's a thousand degrees outside and I'm freaked out with stress, I think I look pretty good. My legs look nice today. I can thank hours at LA Fitness for that. (The fear of writing this story gets me to the gym every day now.) My big sunglasses are hiding my crazy eyes.
I have one thought: Fuck this. I want to go home, scream into my pillow, curse my job (and poor sense of direction), and go for a frustrated run. But I force myself to suck it up and find my last doctor.
Miraculously, I find the office a couple of blocks away. But I'm still feeling surly. In fact, I feel like smashing into the new Audi I park next to. I decide to just let it rip at this appointment. No more lying about my bad habits and no more insecure little rich girl routine. It might be the heat getting to me, but at this point, I feel like puking at the thought of spending more than the GNP of some entire nations, just to fix my "imperfections."
I'm feeling particularly hateful as I fill out my forms.
"What is the purpose of this consult?" it asks. I want to write, "What do you fucking think?" Instead I write "rhinoplasty and liposuction."
"Have you ever received treatment for a mental condition?"
Yes. (On all the other forms, I said no.)
"Do you smoke?"
A pack a day.
One question in particular bothers me: "Please describe your health. Height __ Weight __."
Call me crazy, but it seems like there's a lot more to describing my shape than just noting my height and weight. I sigh and fill it in. I am totally prepared to hate this doctor.
But when I meet him, I can't. He turns out to be the most responsible doctor I've met. When we talk about my nose, he tells me that, realistically, he doesn't think he can correct the crookedness. He takes photos to show me how it's not just my nose, but the bones in my face that shift slightly in one direction, then back again. He refuses to do the rhinoplasty.
"Your nose is exactly over your lip. The tip aligns perfectly. But up here, your face is over here," he says. "All I can say is, if you decide to have it done, make sure you get it done by someone who understands that your face is crooked. I personally wouldn't recommend it. But look at the tip! It's beautiful. You're a very pretty girl."
I appreciate his reassurance that I'm not a monster, considering he just informed me that my face is slightly crooked. Even more than that, I appreciate his honesty, and the fact that he won't sign me up for surgery (or try to up-sell me a chin).
Back in his consultation room which, by the way, is lit very well he gives me a real robe to change into, and we talk about liposuction. I decide to tell a huge lie and say I was thinking about a tummy tuck.
He laughs at me: "That's ridiculously excessive."
I'm liking him more by the minute. It's funny that the doctor I've been surliest to is the one who has made me most comfortable. We conclude that liposuction would be an option if I decide I want it, and he quotes me a price.