Not for the Faint of Heart

Two days ago, I spent money on what could be considered my most ridiculous, frivolous, unnecessary wedding expense. What might that be, you ask? An ice sculpture? Coloured linens? Draping for the walls? Lighting specialists?

No on all counts. Well, actually we are going with coloured linens, which I have been told repeatedly is a waste of my money but I just don't care goshdangit - it's my wedding and I want green tablecloths. But that's not the most frivolous. No, mine is a vanity expense. Some brides drop wads of cash on tanning. Some get their teeth whitened, and some get their hair coloured the perfect shade of golden honey blonde. Some spend loads on personal training to slim down two sizes. What do I do?

I get plastic surgery. I'm so embarassed to admit it! But it's not what you think. I swear there was no boob job or liposuction involved. I would not have ever thought of this procedure as plastic surgery, but technically, that's what it is because it was medically unnecessary.

I have had a small cyst on my arm for the past four years. I ignored it for the first year. Afraid of what it might mean, I buried my head in the sand and carried on in denial. (Note to readers: do not do this. If you have a lump develop randomly on your body, get it checked out. Do as I say, not as I do.) Finally, when I had to go to the doctor anyway for a routine check-up, I asked him about it, terrified of his response. He seemed thoroughly unconcerned, much to my surprise but also intense relief. It was just a cyst, he said. Nothing to worry about.

For some reason, I began to hate it much more once I knew it posed no threat to my health. I suppose the only emotion it had previously evoked in me was worry, and now that was gone, loathing bubbled to the surface. This ugly bump was disturbing the flawless surface of my skin (Flawless, ha! But really, my arm was much prettier without the cyst poking out.) About three years ago, I started thinking about having it removed. It didn't occur to me this was plastic surgery, it was just getting the icky intruder out of my arm.

This summer at my check-up, I told him I was getting married and would be wearing a strapless dress. I wanted my arms to be smooth and I wanted that cyst gone. I'd wanted it gone for years anyway; now I had the motivation to get on with it. He referred me to a plastic surgeon, and I realized immediately I was being vain.

But they set up an appointment for a consultation anyway, so I went, not wanting to be rude. Once I told the surgeon what I wanted done, he said it would be no problem, it would cost $300, and he could get me an appointment next week. I freaked out a little. I just wanted to ask some questions, I didn't know if I would really go through with this. I mean, surgery? For the wedding? Who does that?

I do that. I thought to myself I'd been wanting it out for three years. The sooner I did it, the sooner the scar would fade so I should go ahead and get it done quickly. So on Wednesday afternoon, I found myself lying face down on a table in a hospital gown, awake and breathing nervously while the very nice surgeon cut out the cyst and tried to occupy my mind with idle banter about where I went to university. I could barely remember where I went to school, I was so grossed out at the numb feeling of pressure on my arm as he sewed it back up. But it was over quickly. My arm now looks like this:


That dent better go away, is all I'm sayin'. I am not trading an outie for an innie. It's surprisingly not very painful at all, I barely feel it and haven't taken any painkillers. I'm taking it easy on the exercise this week, and the stitches are coming out on Oct. 23rd. I can't wait to see how it looks with the stitches out.