So, I’m lying in my bed in the dark last night trying to fall asleep … amidst nervous pangs of anxiety and a bit of a stomach ache … and Seinfeld is on in the background. The show ran nine seasons and produced nearly two hundred episodes in total, but (of course!) the one that’s airing is ‘The Implant.’ If you’ve seen the show even once, you know what I’m talking about. Teri Hatcher guest stars as Jerry’s love interest, and Elaine questions the authenticity of her two best assets. The whole episode then goes on to debate the difference in look (and feel) of real versus fake and the average person’s ability to spot the difference. Great. Just what I need to be listening to as I doze off, right? Anyway, I did finally get to sleep last night … despite the cat’s constant efforts to keep me awake.
This morning was a fairly normal one, waking up the kids and getting them dressed, fed and out the door to school … stopping only once for a quick toilet-side goldfish funeral for my daughter’s 11-month-old pet. So, I could now focus on my first big appointment this morning. And I made sure to wear a shirt and pants today as I knew I’d be topless for an audience in less than an hour. Commence the palm sweats.
True to my usual form, I ran a little late this morning and still needed to run around the corner to pick up my friend and boob supporter (which I guess sort of makes her a human bra) on the way to the doctor’s office. I’m late, but she’s not (Thanks, V), so she jumps in the car, coffee in hand, and begins thumbing through the People Magazine on the floor of my car. Unfortunately, she doesn’t realize that I’ve already got secretarial duties planned for her, and I quickly make a call to schedule my next appointment. (I’m still deathly afraid some of these docs are going to tell me there’s a three, six or even twelve-month wait for an appointment.) But I luck out, and my next appointment, with recommended doctor number two, is now scheduled for this coming Tuesday. (Titillating Tuesdays for me from week to week, I suppose.)
We race there only to learn that my reliable iPhone GPS really should’ve given me a different route, so we’re set back a few more minutes and are now wrestling with an old man driver to get into the damned parking garage.
Me – I can totally get around him.
Virginia – I think you should just take the next turn.
Me –WHY IS HE JUST $#@&% SITTING THERE?!!? (pause) I think I can intimidate him into moving.
Virginia – Be nice. Take the next turn.
Me – Fine.
Virginia – Let’s call the office while we’re looking for a parking spot. Tell them we’re running a little late because we left one of your boobs at home.
Me – See. I told you you could be funny.
The office is nice when we call and seems to understand the crowded garage. Alas, my phone rings as we’re running in, and I notice it’s one of the other doctors I’ve called repeatedly to make an appointment. Hating to miss the call, I grab it … thinking it’ll only take a minute.
Wrong.
These people want to know everything about me. Seriously, I think I gave them my Confirmation name. Again, unfortunately for Virginia, this phone call leaves my hardworking friend responsible for checking me in to the current appointment and literally beginning the completion of my paperwork. She did a damned good job if you ask me, leaving blanks only in areas like my social security number.
I finally finish up my phone interrogation and take over the pen and paper from my amazingly-composed friend. We laugh about the “Do you drink alcohol at all?” question. Then, she adds her two cents about the one asking “Have you seen a psychiatrist or therapist in the last two years?” Fine, fine. And then, I have to sign the Photograph Consent Form. Ugh. I’ve seen these headless wretches a few hundred times during the last few months and no one … I mean NO ONE, not even the best pair of boobs … looks good in these photos. Yes, they’re headless … and therefore anonymous. Still, I’ll know. Bleeeeech.
Once we finished the paperwork, we were finally able to settle down in our seats and take in our surroundings. And you know how when you go to a podiatrist, there are feet and foot-related products everywhere? Same for ENT with big plastic ears, noses and throats or at least pictures of them all over the place. Well, like a dumb ass, I half-expected to see boob diagrams on the walls, perhaps a large plastic resin cross-section of a boob illustrating the implant process, maybe even a big boob-shaped chair for patients in the waiting room. Alright, I’m getting a little carried away with that last one. Anyway, there was nothing. I could’ve been at the breast doctor’s office or a law firm. It was a tasteful space that gave nothing cosmetic away except for the small cabinet of skin products we spied in one end of the room.
Only one other woman came in while we were there. And I don’t think she was a patient. Or maybe she was a ‘before’ like me. Let’s hope. (Sorry, but it’s true!) We waited a little longer, shooting the bull about boobs and talking about whatever (or whomever!) else we could think of to discuss … until I heard them call my name …
Part two of this momentous experience will be shared tomorrow … when my head stops spinning!
OldDogNewTits 