Now Where Do I Keep My Keys?

So, I recently modified a body part that has thrown off my equilibrium for decades. Let's call them smoobies to keep this blog kid-friendly. What I'm actually referring to are the two asymmetrical (yep) lumps of flesh and tissue which hang precariously beneath my chin and are above my belly button (unless I'm bending over). So, after endless appeals to the male-dominated insurance company that makes decisions about the female anatomy even though they have different parts, I decided to suck it up and fork out 7 Gs for a more proportionate pair. When my amazing doc was able to bend them in half to show what the end result would be, I was utterly convinced that I had made the right choice.

But, alas, I have a problem. Where on earth am I gonna' house my cell phone, keys, and tic tacs? I know what you're thinking and, no, that totally won't work as I've tried it. So, my dear friend Vanessa has suggested a new device. We haven't named it yet, but it's like a bra with little baby pockets and zippers maybe. I was thinking of calling it the "Brocket". Sort of like those pouches that some folks wear around their hips to make for a hands-free day of sight-seeing or shopping. Except, they won't come in neon colors and won't contain a large unipouch in the front.

So, the day of surgery arrived and I'm like, "What the hay?" As I came to from my anesthesia induced fog, I became immediately aware that things were, indeed, quite different. I refused to get in the car with Daniel, as I felt that he was way too irresponsible to handle my care and wanted to stay with the lovely nurses who had the pain meds. Plus, for a brief moment, I thought I was a Ninja and planned to use my saddled unicorn to fight off the random zombies that I might encounter. Days later, I began to enter that completely overrated place in the time-space continuum known as reality and thought, "Ouch. This hurts like the dickens." Refusal of additional pain meds so that I appeared in complete control of myself unlike the drugsters on Cops was not a great plan and one that I deeply regret to this day. I wanted to appear totally cool and collected, although my smoobies were screaming, "We have teeth and we are biting you. We can't punch you in the eyeballs when you run anymore, sister, but we will surely get back at you for the whole dismemberment trick you just pulled. We've got your number and we're DIALING!" Needless to say, I look like a Frankenstonian experiment gone terribly wrong, and was only able to milk being incapacitated for a week. But, my bikini top will never again resemble a pool tarp or tent for the 9th regiment. I'm excited about the new "me." I just gotta figure out what to do with my funnel cake change (that one's for you, Jen).

Kudos to the amazing folks at Wilmington Plastic Surgery and Dr. Morgan who rocks....and to my family and friends who had to deal with weeks of whining and flashing. I love you guys. Bless your hearts.