Plastic Surgery

Okay, so a creative writing teacher once told me that good writing often comes from things people don't want to talk about. I figured that I'd take that to heart and write about plastic surgery.

Here's what it's like. When you first walk in, there are people seated in a waiting room of sorts. They stare at you secretly (or not-so-secretly), trying to figure out what you're having done. They're all self-conscious to some extent. Of course, the place I went to fixed noses and migraines. Often, I'd sit there calm and collected, pretending that I was there for migraine surgery. It helped me feel less self-conscious.

They always say that they're excited for you, but you can tell that this is something they tack on for every patient. The workers all wear makeup and their best clothes. Except the nurse. She looked official in scrubs. 

I still haven't gotten the actual surgery yet. I'll update later, I guess. It's weird to think that I'll be altering my body like this. It's like a tattoo—a permanent, cosmetic change. 

Later:

My dad was right. Anesthesiologists don't know how to talk to people. They jab needles into people without speaking for a reason.

Undressing was awkward. I tried to make it not awkward, but everyone knows it awkward and we're all pretending it's not. I'm shirtless and we're pretending like it's normal. I thought I'd first be shirtless in a romantic encounter, but this is as far from that as possible. This is a procedure. It has an end result. The doctor smelled like a lunchroom cafeteria.