I must tell people that I was not born with this face. I must tell them that I’ve had a nose job. Someone from Johns Hopkins built my beauty.
And as I tell my friends and colleagues about my nose job I know they will have questions, for which I am prepared to answer. I’ve been preparing for years.
I’ve practiced the answers, read them aloud, committed them to memory.
I must also tell them that my explanations are built. My whole personality is built. I must tell them that although I am attractive and gather large flocks of people who now want to engage in conversations, sex and fun with me, that I have no fucking clue who I am.
I must tell them I am lost beauty. I know they will laugh at me. I am prepared for laughter. I am prepared to laugh back and tell them that surgery will not fix their whole life. It will only expose questions and answers and the constant fixing of them.
I will then tell them that I am having a face lift next week and so they won’t see me for a bit.
And I am prepared for those questions.
But I have yet to prepare my answers.