Here I am. Three days away from surgery on my shoulder and ONLY my shoulder.
This is despite my best efforts at attempting to talk my orthopedic surgeon into a complimentary “mommy tuck” (read: tummy), and a boob job to relocate those suckers north of my equator again, or at least a little closer to where they were in my youth.
I call this my personal continental drift. My body over the years, has been one long, slow moving, southerly mess. Bones and skin and hair have shifted with regrettable persistence and poor choices. I am assured by my husband it is still a beautiful one. He basically called me a beautiful “mess”.
He’ll deny it. He’ll say he only called me beautiful, but I think we can all agree it was heavily implied in the subtext.
He is reading over my shoulder, the broken down one with the expired warranty, as I type this and loudly complaining that he is being misrepresented.
I felt it only fair to point this out. I do have a tendency to be slightly overly dramatic. Only occasionally and only slightly. Fine. Maybe I’m a little more dramatic than I’ve been willing to admit to in the past. I am what I am, and what I am is a spectacular mess. I’m damn proud of it.
Back to my completely unreasonable doctor, and my completely reasonable request.
I think at this age, after all of these kids, the unnaturally early mornings and the unforgivably late nights my body has earned a spot in the witness relocation program. It has, after all, witnessed quite a lot. through childbirth and aging. Alas, my doctor was resolute in his refusal to accommodate my vanity. I’ve still got 72 hours left to sweet talk him but I think I know when I’m beat.
