My next visit with the Plastic Surgeon is in a matter of days. I’ve dreaded it since about the day after I made the appointment, which was definitely long before the trip to New York. As the date creeps closer, I feel more and more uneasy. The night before we left for New York, I stayed at my cousin’s house. She has the most magnificent grown-up bathroom: a big tub with jets, dimming lights, a mounted TV and, perhaps most importantly, vanilla bubble bath. I took a bath with The Mindy Project playing in the background and tried to not think about it, but even in that little slice of paradise I couldn’t escape my head. It’s this constant fear banging around in my head and it refuses to be shaken. Even as I type this I feel like I might start crying.
I can’t put my finger on the root of this anxiety, but I think I have it narrowed down:
And here’s the thing: I’m probably blowing this up in my head, thinking it’s going to be way worse than it actually will be. Maybe he’ll simply say something like, hey, let’s pick a date to stick this sucker back in there and I’ll schedule it and be on my merry way. I guess I’d rather prepare for the worst. Under promise, over deliver type of thing, but I can’t shake the feeling that this appointment is going to be complete misery.
This week is going to drag, my apprehension is only going to get worse.
I hate being this person. I hate feeling this out of control.