Tuesday, January 22, 2013


Day 4 post-op. I'm still mostly on the couch, mostly drinking fluids & mostly feeling really, really lucky.

How acutely aware I have become of my good fortune these past several years! I don't want to be anyone or anywhere else (though, since I'm being all honest here, a big ole bag of money could present itself at any time; I wouldn't turn that shit down).

A few days ago I got plastic surgery. I elected to have a (very talented) doctor medicate me, numb me up and stick a laser into my eyes. I was talking the whole time, cracking jokes with the doc and his sicko surgical assist who both reminded me of my precious and demented co-workers. It was awesome.

For ever and ever I've hated my face; my eyes to be exact. Yes. HATED. I inherited huge under-eye fat pockets from my father and every year they grew and grew and grew and as far as I was concerned: They Took Over. They made me look like someone I wasn't. Made me look like I felt bad, tired, stressed, angry. And while some of those adjectives certainly apply to me from time to time, they are not WHO I AM every single minute of every single day of every single year.

I'm in therapy. I'm on anti-depressants. I've radically changed my diet. I drink tons of good, clean water and I'm a full-on grown up lady who's knocking on the door of her 43'rd birthday feeling like she deserves not just a metaphorical clean slate, but a fucking real deal ready for my close up clean slate.

So, I did it. I did it and I've been tingling with excitement and joy and gratefulness for the past 4 days. I know myself pretty well, and I know the feeling will last. That it will temper itself, spread out and take hold in all of my proximal and distal bits and get real good and comfy and hang out for a while.

I don't know that if I didn't have Lincoln and Penelope that I would be able to accept my life with this level of gusto and love. I don't know that I'd be able to feel this good and conscious of all that is right and truly amazing about my life. They saved me.

And last night, while my boy was soaking in the tub after an awesome play-date with kids from his school, an afternoon of raucous destructo-boy play at home, a nasty diaper change that showed me that a 4 year old can still shit up his back if he fucking feels like it and a horror show episode in the bathroom involving toilet paper and used tampons in some sort of Downton Abbey macabre tea party scene, I still felt lucky.

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