I’m home from the hospital now. I got my first peek at my “new” breasts when my surgeon pulled the drains and changed the dressing in her clinic.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel my chest drop down to my belly button, didn’t feel the tug on my shoulders. Even with the bruises and stitches now, my breasts look and, most importantly, feel so much better.
For most of my adult life, I thought about cosmetic surgery the way I think about haute couture fashion and tiny, expensive sports cars: fun for daydreaming, but completely out of context to my life to seriously consider for myself.
Sure, I stood in front of a mirror, and pinched the fat and lifted the skin to imagine what things would look like if something was pulled here, rearranged there. I researched the surgery, compared before-and-after photos, watched the reality television shows about extreme makeovers, and yeah … I wondered.
But such a thing was too vain. Too expensive. Too extraordinary to realistically consider.
We visited the Stasi Museum in what was the headquarters campus of the MfS (the Ministry for State Security) to spy, terrorize, manipulate and control its own people in East Germany. I paid a little extra to get the photography button.
This is a display depicting the enemy: Western culture, Iron Maiden, and agents of NATO. I would not have been well liked in Eastern Germany.
6:05 a.m. –I am definitely not a morning person, but we are up very early for a flight, running away to Berlin for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary and my birthday (later this month), so yeah, I‘m on board with my favorite travel partner.
I can see a few new wrinkles on my face, and more silver in my mane. This month was brutal. I didn’t get in a single run and survived on shit convenience food as my focus zeroed in on my son, then the rest of the family, then work, then school, and then whatever else I needed to stack on top of my own wellbeing.