Plastic Surgery

I remember one afternoon I found myself under the cabana by the saltwater pool at the rehab clinic. Two of the women I was with were taking notes on each other’s plastic surgery, comparing names of doctors and procedures.

I was sipping a fountain Coca-Cola and smoking an American Spirit, a bag of Lay’s potato chips near my bare thigh.

They paused to surmise if I had any work done. I shrugged and tapped my cigarette ash into the tray. Given the hell I’d been through, it was nice to know I still had “it” and that women of the higher economic status presumed “it” had been cultivated by some Chicago plastic surgeon. I stubbed out my cigarette and waded into the saltwater pool, smiling over my shoulder at them.

Since quitting alcohol, I don’t have any “moon face”; I can get away with washing my face with some French drugstore cleanser and slapping on some Ponds anti-wrinkle cream and no one is the wiser. I like being able to throw on some Maybelline Great Lash mascara and some nude lipstick and call it a day.

Friends like to give me their wayward coloring books. When I’m not doodling wildflowers, I’ll brew a cup of chamomile tea and sit and color, in hopes of outrunning the Restless Irritable Discontent that slithers in or else rushes past like a freight train on the railroad tracks. I finally colored in that cat with the crown I’ve been eyeing.