On Monday, I’m having some outpatient surgery done. While the surgery itself is no big deal, the recovery is supposed to be a bit of a bitch and takes several weeks. The other thing that is a bitch is that I frequently have to field questions about why I’m having surgery. I would have kept the surgery a secret, but if I did that, people would think I was missing, while instead, I’m just off happily recovering with a large bottle of pain killers. I don’t want to walk in the grocery store and see my face on the back of a milk carton, so instead, I share – up to a point.
When asked why I’m having surgery, my normal response has been, “It’s just some minor stuff I have to fix.” This is the truth. People do not like this answer. I’m not sharing properly. I’m not giving details. So conjecture ensues. One co-worker asked me if I was having a nose job. I touched my nose reflexively. It’s never been my best feature, but really, that’s a bit of an assumption. “No, I’m not,” I told her. “Oh,” she said, surprised.
Another co-worker (my co-workers need etiquette lessons) said to me yesterday, “Well, I hope I get to see you again.” I told her I was not dying, and she realized her faux pas. “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” What did you mean, sweetheart? That you hope I don’t recover and suddenly move to Detroit?
My boss is convinced that I am having “female” problems, even though I’ve given him no indication that I am. He even told the head of our board, which, by the way, as my employer, he legally should not have done that. Now I have concerned board members calling me up, wishing me well with my reproductive system.
A few friends, who know how vain I am, have asked if I was going to get “something pretty done.” Okay, is there something you all want to tell me about the way I look?
One friend said, “Oh, I know. You’re getting an abortion.” This prompted an idea: if Roe V. Wade should ever get overturned, and providing I haven’t crossed over to the other side of menopause, maybe I will get pregnant just to have an abortion as a political statement. Oh don’t put it past me.
I remember after my mother died, most people did not know how to interact with me. Some friends avoided me like I had SARS. I confronted one friend about it, and he said, “Well, it’s just an uncomfortable subject.” Yeah, well, how do you think my Mom felt, being dead and all.
When life picks us as the subjects of unfortunate circumstances, Appropriateness yields to Awkwardness. Fortunately for me, in about 48 hours, I’ll have some nice pain killers and can take a vacation from Awkward. Then I will go back to work and face the inquiring stares of co-workers looking me over, trying to figure out what I did and why my nose and breasts have not changed.
So if my posts are weird next week, blame it on the drugs, and with my luck, I’ll have good stories to tell about rude doctors and nurses.
