T-minus four days and counting...

It is April 12th and I will have my surgery this Friday, April 16th. The surgery center called today for the particulars, I go in the morning for an EKG and bloodwork, and if I pass those tests, I'm on the table at 9 AM Friday! One thing I thought odd, though...they said (and I quote) "should you decide to wear panties during the procedure, please make sure they are 100% cotton." Now, the inquisitive part of me wants to know why? Why cotton? Why can't I wear a blend? And are they going to check the tag to be certain I have followed their directions? Did they think I would show up in a purple lace thong? Puhleeeze, I think that's crazy! But I'm getting hung up on small details, I know.

I am bouncing back and forth between sheer ecstacy and absolute full-on panic. Thank goodness tax season is keeping me busy and I don't have a lot of time to dwell on details. I hope to stay very busy until we close up shop on Thurday. I would imagine Thursday night will be a sleepless one, though.

I've heard from good authority that the first day is okay, the second is terrible, but after that, it should be smooth sailing. Rob has decided he wants to take me rather than Kay...and I'm fine with it if it makes him feel better somehow. I hadn't even entertained the thought that he might have been feeling left out of all the excitement. Anyway, that's the plan now - show up at 8 AM on Friday morning, 3 hour procedure then 1 hour in recovery and ta da! A brand new me.

Countdown to JTE

Lots of things have happened since my last blog. First, I did, indeed, have my "consult" with Dr. Eyssen....and immediately determined I did NOT want him doing my work. First off, he's ancient; his hand was actually shaking as he was writing down some notes for me...and you want me to let you hold a scalpel and cut me WHERE? I don't think so...plus, he had the audacity to say something along the lines of "Even in a bikini, you won't be able to see your scars...oh, wait, you're well past your bikini years, aren't you?" What in God's name did you just say to me, I wanted to scream. I do wear two piece bathing suits still...I wouldn't call them bikinis, but I rock 'em out all the same. So, after paying him $90 to insult me not once but twice (he suggested I might want to have a little mini tummy tuck while I was in the hospital - after all, why pay twice for anesthesia and hospital room when I could do it all at once - WTF?), I steamed and stewed all the way back to my office. There, I decided to give his office manager a call, express my concerns, and ask to have a consultation with one of the other surgeons in the group, Dr. Chase. Dr. Chase is reponsible for "the job" one of my sweetest friends had a couple of years ago and she still sings his praises and loves her boobs so...the office manager kindly obliged me with a "free" consultation with Dr. Chase, and I am now scheduled for surgery on Friday, April 16th.

Kind of ironic - the day after tax season....ending the busiest time of year for me. The firm always closes this day and treats it as an extra holiday for the staff, but this year, I'll spend it under the knife, which will give me two good weekend days to recuperate with pain meds...I've taken the following week off - just in case - and I'll wander back downtown to my home-away-from-home where I get paid every two weeks when I feel well enough to do so.

The cost of my JTE...$5,525. Yep, that's it, which is roughly $2,762.50 per boob. Well, technically, the left one will cost a little more because it's a little bigger and he's going to reduce it a bit to make me more symmetrical. I had no idea I even needed to be symmetrical so I'm kind of excited about that little bonus.

I have mixed emotions. When I made the appointment back in January, it seemed like an eternity away. I arranged with my best friend, Kell, to take me (can't explain why but I don't want my husband with me!!!) In the meantime, Kelley has fallen on her own dark days - arrested for DUI (she was not drinking, rather she had taken some anti-anxiety medication prescribed by her doctor and she blacked out while driving, hit a tree, and was arrested. She was fired from her job, also...so I think my back up plan, Kay, will be taking me to the hospital, then toting me home and tucking me safely into bed. I'll owe her lots of cocktails for this one.

So I'm excited and anxious all at the same time. Fortunately, I won't have much free time to think about it - baseball season starts this week, tax season is in full swing, I'm having to pick up some of Kelley's duties here at work...so the time will fly leading up to the procedure. But what if something goes wrong during what is clearly a very vain undertaking on my part? It's funny, but my big ol' boobs have never bothered me like they have in the past few weeks - they just seem in the way and almost untamable these days. So maybe that's nature's way of telling me I'm making the right decision...

This is definitely the most selfish thing I've ever done in my whole life and I hope it's the right decision. Will keep you "abreast" of the situation in the days to come....

My journey toward emancipation begins...

From here on out, this will be referred to as my JTE - much easier to type than "journey toward emancipation." And by emancipation, I mean freedom from these heavy, saggy BOOBS! That is right, tomorrow I begin my JTE with my first consultation with Dr. Eyssen. Why Dr. Eyssen? Well, several reasons - he comes highly recommended, is associated with the cosmetic surgery group in Chatt with the absolute best reputation and...there's a saying in the medical community in this area: "Dr. Eyssen makes nice 'uns." So...my sense of humor has once again helped me make a huge decision.

Although now I don't see anything funny about this JTE! It seemed like a great idea a few weeks ago when I called for the appointment...now, I feel like a big chicken sheeyut (I'm trying not to cuss this year - so far so good).

I have literally stayed in bed all day for two reasons: 1. I don't want to return to work tomorrow and 2. I'm a bit freaked out about having to stand in front of some man I don't know in my underwear (or worse - naked) and have him critique my 44-year-old body. Sheez, I hope he gets paid well - wait...I'll be the one paying him well!

I'm going to try to keep a journal here of this journey - this trip toward boob freedom. These heavy, cumbersome appendages have caused me much heart ache, anxiety and pretty much dictated what I wear for years now. It's time for me to show them who the boss really is...that would be me. To do that, I need some redesigning, reshaping, lifting and hoisting. I need Dr. Eyssen for that.

Lots of things will depend on when this gets done - I have to be in Orlando on business Feb. 11 - if he can get me scheduled with at least 10 good days of recuperationg between now and then, I'll have the procedure done this month. If not, I'll have to wait until after April 15th. Either way, by summer, I'll have a new set (provided my blood pressure is good and I'm a good candidate for the surgery...and the price tag won't break the bank). These are all questions that will be answered during my consultation tomorrow. Until then, I will rummage around and find my nicest panties and bra for my introduction to Dr. Eyssen.

I'll surely need a shot of tequila or a cigarette afterwards...

Acting My Age

I turned 44 last month...44. That is a huge number.

I don't like getting old. I mean, I know I'm not "old" yet...my aging journey has just begun. But I have certainly made my reservations and I guess some might say I've even bought my ticket.

It's very humbling to get older - things hurt that didn't used to hurt; things droop that didn't used to droop. Rules change, your perspectives change. Mortality takes you by the shoulders and shakes you...it pretty much bites.

I don't agree with the "over 40" chicks who say things like "I've come into 'my own' since I've turned 40." Well, I kind of liked "my own" when it was 20 and looked like it was 20. My own at 44 doesn't look anything like it did 20 years ago. I hate my gray hair and I don't consider my wrinkles the "road map of my life" - if I could afford it, I'd drive my happy arse to Botox City every few months. "Road map of my life" indeed...whoever coined that phrase should be shot.

Another thing, when you get older, you sort of have to grow up and stop being so "me" all the time. While I don't think I'm self-centered, I do sort of live in a little fantasy world called "Kim's Universe." Being selfish and self-centered is cute when you are 25 and hot. When you're 44 and supposed to be raising two responsible children, it's not so attractive. I've had to get up and over myself a lot this year - had a major falling out with one of my gal pals, my parents have been ill, my children are changing and needing me less and less, I've lost several good friends to cancer. It seems the very things by which I've defined myself for many years are shifting and changing; therefore, I have had to change, too.

It's not been fun. And I can't imagine it's going to get any "funner," either.

I think I'm going to myself a T-shirt...it's going to say "As Mature As I'm Going To Get." And it will be purple...

It's been a year...

Almost to the day since I last blogged. Shame on me. Wow - have things changed!

In the past 12 months I've lost a dear friend (Jerry), cheered Thing 1 through his freshman basketball season, joined a gym and started working out, become a Facebook junkie, cheered Thing 2 through a baseball season (complete with another All Star season and yet another trip to the World Series in Mississippi), lost a neighbor to cancer (Mr. Garry) and I've survived Thing 1 obtaining his driver's license.

It's been a big year for me.

Other things have happened, too. But those are the highlights.

I've got to be more faithful to this blog. That's my not-so-new year's resolution.

A Rite of Passage

Local drivers, beware…there’s a new kid on the road…Thing 1 has his driver’s permit!

Yes, Tuesday morning, bright and early – and I do mean early (they open at 7 AM), he and I headed to Harriman to the Tennessee Department of Safety Driver License Service Center. Now, I’m not 15 but if I were, just the name itself would scare the fool out of me. It’s so official. Why not just call it “The very small office in Harriman where you get a driver’s permit?” That’s much less intimidating, a little more welcoming, if you ask me.

We chatted during the drive, laughed about some recent goofy things that had happened in our family, and the trip went by quickly. Only when we pulled into the parking lot of the very small office in Harriman where you get a driver’s permit did the weight of the situation hit me. It wasn’t enough that he towers over me, rarely needs assistance making decisions, and started high school last month. Oh, no, we were about to add a box of Morton iodized salt to that already open, gaping wound called “Thing 1 Is Growing Up.” My child was about to take one more step in a direction I affectionately refer to as “Away From Me.” He was about to take a test and fill out a form to complete the first requirement (his permit) towards earning his official ticket of freedom (his driver’s license).

I thought about turning the car around and driving south really, really fast. But sometimes – no, most times – when you’re a mom, you have to put yourself and your immediate needs second (or third or fourth). So without hesitation, I said, “Let’s go get you permitted!” It felt more like I need to be committed…to Moccasin Bend or Greenleaf.

We were the second customers to arrive that morning and had a short wait during which I was forced to fill out official paperwork, urge him to be a designated organ donor, and watch him sign his full name several times in a bittersweet, loopy signature that didn’t look like a grown man’s handwriting at all. I choked up a couple of times but I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a clue. He had his eye on the prize (oh, yeah, and he was combing his hair a lot in preparation for his photo!)

I supplied his birth certificate, his social security card, my license…we gave them everything but a blood sample. And finally it was time for him to take his test. They directed him to a small room with computers and told him to turn over his cell phone to me. That’s the only time he hesitated. I don’t think he was afraid of the test, rather I think his cell phone is like a respirator for him. I saw a bit of fear in his eyes as he handed me the precious accessory. I winked and said, “Breath deep…it will be waiting for you when you’re done, my son.” He bravely nodded, squared his shoulders and disappeared through the door to his awaiting computer and the test.

I retreated to the waiting room and did random things – cleaned out my purse, memorized all the signs on the walls, read all of his text messages. When he came out, he slid into the seat next to me and said, “Piece of cake.” Apparently he had studied his practice tests and had reviewed a lot of material in driver’s education class at school. A few moments passed and I heard one of the girls behind the counter quietly say, “He passed, do you want me to process the permit?” I realized I had been the one in need of a respirator and I exhaled with relief or trepidation – I’m still not sure which. The state of Tennessee had deemed Thing 1 capable and worthy of owning a driver’s permit. He was officially on his way to freedom! Son, 1 point…mom, zero.

A small fee, another couple of signatures and one photo later, a man behind the counter said, “Congratulations, son. Here’s your permit,” and handed it to him.

I swear he looked like Charlie in the Willie Wonka movie when he got the golden ticket. You couldn’t have wiped the smile from his face with a case of erasers. It was a great moment – pretty sad but really great and I’m glad I’m the one who shared it with him.

We walked to the parking lot and I handed him my car keys. I guess my oldest is a little dense because he walked over to the driver’s side, unlocked my door, and handed the keys back to me. I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “What are YOU doing?” I said, “Waiting for you to drive me somewhere.” He said, “Now? Out of here?” I said, “No time like the present. Show me what you know.”

And so he did. We arrived safe, sound and well under the speed limit (I’m glad he doesn’t have my lead foot – yet). I think he’s the first among his friends to have that precious permit so I feel driven (pardon the pun) to offer my mom gal pals some advice…help them study, keep them calm, and take off the rest of the day after the test for medical reasons because you may have a debilitating case of the blues.

Love...Third Grade Style

I’m in my very early mid-40s (is there really such an age? Ha! There is now! LOL) and I’ve been with my husband for over 20 years. So to say I have forgotten the innocent nuances of love at first sight is an understatement. Aside from a pair of earrings I spotted at Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco last February, I haven’t experienced love at first sight in two decades. Not to insinuate that I fell in love my husband at first sight…technically, I had known him for six or seven years before I fell in love with him. So I guess you could say it took about 143 sightings of him before my heart went a-flutter. But I digress.

Back to love at first sight.

Thing 2 has always been the Don Juan of our family (or Don Wannabe – that’s what my hubby calls him). That child has been girl crazy from the time he realized there were major differences between the sexes. At any given time you can ask him “How many girlfriends do you have?” and he’ll say “A bunch.” His first sweetheart was Anne Marie, then came Caitlyn, then came Meredith, then came Micah, then came (and stayed) Meredith again. She has been the most enduring, lasting a whole year! That is, until Thing 2 started third grade this year.

Here was our conversation last week.

Thing 2: Mom, I think I found me a pretty girl.
Mom (fighting back shock and dismay at the thought of losing dear, sweet Meredith as a potential daughter-in-law 20 years from now): Really?
Thing 2: Yep. But she’s in 4th grade. I guess I’m into older women now.
Mom (now stifling a giggle): Hmmm. Well, 4th grade isn’t that much older than 3rd grade. You’re probably the same age, number-wise. What’s her name?
Thing 2: I have no idea.
Mom (now totally confused): Why don’t you know her name?
Thing 2: I just don’t.
Mom (fully intrigued): Haven’t you asked her name?
Thing 2: Nope. I haven't even talked to her yet.
Mom: Ahhh…well…how do you know you like her?
Thing 2: I just do, that’s all.

If love were only so simple, right? Well, I really didn’t know what to say so I went about preparing supper. I thought the conversation was over until suddenly it wasn’t.

Thing 2: So, Mom, what do you think I should do? Should I write her like a secret admirer note or buy her something or what?
Mom (picking myself up from the floor knowing full well this sweet child of mine can’t even SPELL secret admirer correctly): Um, I’m not really sure, dear. What do you think you should do?
Thing 2: I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you. What did dad do when he started thinking you were pretty?

Oh, boy…I wasn’t even going to head down that path. I want my sons to take after my husband in a lot of ways. My husband is a hard worker, he’s honest, he’s fair, he’s mild-mannered, he’s detail-oriented, he’s incredibly handy to have around the house. But when it comes to romance…well, let’s just say the boys might want to work that one out on their own - take a night course - read some articles - do research online - ask their Uncle Joe...anything but seek their dad's advice.

When we "courted," it took him a month to work up enough nerve to kiss me goodnight. And then, when he finally did, it was because I stomped my foot and ordered him to do so. He complied, then proceeded to stumble backwards off my porch steps. Not exactly a cinematic moment. But I kept him so there must have been some sparks.

I was spared anymore "advice for the lovelorn" sessions by Thing 2 when he arrived home the next day to announce that he and Meredith were boyfriend and girlfriend again. I said, "How do you know you are boyfriend and girlfriend again?" He said, "Because she told me we were - she said 'do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?' and I said 'sure' and she said, 'okay, we are.'" (These kids are smooth operators, I tell you). So I asked, "What about your older woman?" He said, "She can wait. Besides, I didn't even know her name. You can't have a girlfriend if you don't know her name."

True that, my son, true that.