Despite how impulsive I am as a person, I’m actually a nervous wreck when it comes to plastic surgery. I vacillate between wanting everything and nothing and everything again. I ask for opinions upon opinions that never seem to matter, because when push comes to shove, I usually chicken out.
Why? I’m afraid of dying. I’m afraid of the universe punishing me for my vanity. And I’m afraid of my obit saying something like, “Welp, she died because she wanted better tits.”
I wasn’t like this when I was younger. At twenty-one, I would have let any Joe Schmo off the street do my boob job. I was just excited to have boobs that didn’t look like Italian eggplants out of a bra. Anything would have been an upgrade, even if Dr. Schmo only fixed one side.
At twenty-one, I didn’t think much about all the things that could go wrong. I didn’t have kids who would be abandoned or a husband who would probably move on and gift all my Brent Neale jewelry to some chick who still thought Cartier love bracelets were cool.
When I was young, I didn’t feel like the universe would use me as an example. My poodle wasn’t going to learn some huge life lessons if I didn’t wake up from getting implants. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed I’d passed.
Now, I worry about these things the way I used to worry about being abducted by aliens. I know the odds of dying from a breast lift and getting abducted, Fire in the Sky style, are low, but both aren’t impossible.
My therapist used to say that it was narcissistic of me to constantly worry that I was going to be abducted. But I fully believe that if she’d spent more than just fifty minutes per week with me, she would have wanted to abduct me too.