Love Is Blind (12 page)

Life after Chris was miserable.

Turning to my old standbys didn’t help. 

Angry music enraged me
and ballads made me cry.  I couldn’t even listen to my favorite band anymore after the fiasco at the concert with Eric.  Now I just associated my favorite songs with humiliation and loss.

I tried to lose myself in romance novels but I felt too raw to read about people falling in love.  I tried switching to horror but found I’d often read the same page four times and still have no idea what was going on. 
I was numb.

I even tried to reacquaint myself with my old boyfriend, the vibrating toothbrush.  The only problem was that every time I neared climax, memories of making love to Chris swirled around in my head.  I tried to push them aside but all I could think about was his lips on my hot flesh and his gentle, capable hands running over my body.  Bursting into tears at the moment of
climax got old fast.

I couldn’t concentrate.  I couldn’t sleep.  Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Life would have been so much easier had I never met Chris.  Sure, my life back then had been lonely and dull, but it had been safe.  I’d had my routines, my music and my books.  I hadn’t ever been in love before him, so I hadn’t known what I was missing.

Now, I knew what I was missing.  I could feel the void in my soul.

It was hard to believe I’d ever get over Chris, especially when there was a pretty good chance he’d been my one shot at true love.  Other women, women who look normal, have it easier.  They might have two, three or even more great loves in their lives.  But for me, the odds weren’t so good.  It was remarkable enough that I’d even fallen in love once.  To ask for anything more was just greedy.

Maybe I was wallowing in self-pity just a bit, but if you can’t
wallow after a devastating breakup, then when can you?

I’d like to say I had an “aha!” moment where I realized the only thing that matters in life is inner beauty.  I’d like to say I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.  I’d like to say everything worked out, I met a new fantastic guy and we lived happily ever after, the end.

But life doesn’t work that way.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of my life, it’s that nobody is entitled to a happy ending.  The world doesn’t owe any of us a thing.

Eric called me.  It took him two weeks to do it, but he called me. 

I tore him a new one, berating him for the way he’d acted that night at the concert.  I told him friends are loyal.  I told him he was a bigger douchebag now than he’d been in high school because at least back then he’d owned it.  I warned him that no one will ever fall for his nice guy act because eventually a person’s true colors always bleed through.

Maybe I was unnecessarily harsh with him, I don’t know.  All I can say is it felt damn good to get all that off my chest.  It was the catharsis that had been ten odd years in the making.  And when I hung up the phone, I felt lighter.

Or at least I did until my thoughts once again turned to Chris.

He hadn’t called me.  He’d stayed away.  I wasn’t even sure who owed who an apology anymore.  Every time I thought of our big blow up I cringed.  It all seemed like such a blur.  I was furious and hurt but no matter how hard I tried
to hate him, my heart ached every time I remembered how good he’d made me feel.

Good things never seem to last.  It isn’t fair. 

I tried to focus on the future.

The beginning of September was rapidly approaching.  I’d
managed to scrape up just enough money to pay my college tuition.  It had been a longstanding dream of mine to go to college and hopefully, start over.  I hoped that if I surrounded myself by educated, ambitious people in a new environment, maybe they’d be more accepting of me.  Maybe they wouldn’t make my life a living hell.  Of course, I had no idea if that theory had any merit.

Dutifully, I handed over my tuition money and bought textbooks for my classes.  I should have been thrilled that my long-time dream of going to college was coming true.  I knew my being the first person in my family to get a college degree would make my mother proud.  But I just couldn’t get excited about it.

Bitterness set in, growing like mold, spreading like cancer.

I’d always followed the rules.  I’d done my homework and stayed out of trouble and done what was expected of me.  Where had that gotten me?  What did I have to show for it?  A lonely, pathetic existence, that’s what.

The incident in the grocery store parking lot had been the first time I’d ever acted on instinct.  I hadn’t thought about consequences or social acceptability or any of that.  All I’d thought was that I really wanted to make those idiots hurt the way I was hurting.  Then I did. 

Maybe that had been the first time I’d ever been true to myself. 

Flipping out like that hadn’t been my finest moment.  But you know what?  Looking back on it, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction.  Maybe I’m not supposed to admit that.  The moral of the story is probably supposed to be that physical violence is never acceptable.   Screw it.  That day I’d stood up to my bullies.  I’d done something just for me, without any regard for the aftermath, the law or others’ expectations. 

It was time to start living for myself, and to do what I wanted even if it wasn’t the sensible thing.

Two days before my tuition payment became non-refundable, I dropped out of college.  The old Michelle never would have done it.  It wasn’t a decision I made lightly.  It wasn’t a decision I was completely comfortable with.  Even as I was signing the papers down at student services, I felt an immense sense of regret.

But I hoped my decision would pay off in the end.

My entire life, I’d been jealous of attractive people.  Supermodels and the celebrities who grace the covers of magazines must have it so easy.  But it wasn’t just them I envied.  It was the ordinary girls who had symmetrical, unblemished faces whose lives I really coveted.  Because the only thing holding me back from being one of them was the birthmark.

A long time ago, I’d decided my body was alright.  It was nothing special – no
crazy curves or mile long legs.  But it was alright.  The unmarked side of my face was decent enough, too.  As a kid I used to wish I’d been born into a rich family so that I could have plastic surgery and get the birthmark removed.

My family didn’t have money…but now I did.

Every penny I’d scraped together over the years had been for college.  I guess at some point I’d just given up on the dream of getting my face fixed because it was so costly.  My mom, bless her heart, had always told me inner beauty shines through.   “Get your education,” she always said.  “It’s your brains that will take you places!”

It was sweet of her to try
to instill those values in me.  Unfortunately, my life experiences led me to conclude that she was spouting absolute, utter bullshit.  So with my refunded tuition money burning a hole in my pocket, I booked a consultation appointment with a plastic surgeon I found in the yellow pages.

If you c
an’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?

The day of my consultation, I was on pins and needles.
  I couldn’t seem to stop drumming my fingers against whatever surface happened to be available.  I had so much pent up nervous energy that I felt like I might explode.  I don’t know why.  It’s not like the plastic surgeon was going to slice into my face right then and there or anything! 

My appointment wasn’t until
after lunch but I arrived at the clinic during the noon hour.  I guess everyone must have been on lunch break because it was just me and one receptionist in the large, bright space that signified the workplace of a successful surgeon. 

I grabbed a magazine, sat in the chair by the wall and stared at the clock hanging over the door counting the seconds as they passed.

A few minutes later the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen sashayed into the clinic in heels so high I would have tripped and broken an ankle for sure.  She was immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed with hair that looked like she’d come straight from the hairdresser’s and makeup that looked professionally done.  She was the kind of woman every other female on the planet loves to hate.

After she’d checked in with the receptionist, she teetered into the waiting room.  I buried my nose in the magazine I was holding and pretended to be engrossed in it.  But it didn’t work.  The woman sat down right next to me and immediately tried to strike up a conversation.

“What are you here for?” she asked and then when I looked up, she winced.  “Ooh, sweetie, does it hurt?” she asked with concern that actually sounded legitimate rather than feigned.

I shook my head and looked back down at my magazine
, hoping she’d take the hint.

She continued to chatter away.  “
Well I’m glad you’re not in pain!  Speaking of pain, make sure the doctor gives you the good stuff when you have your surgery, okay hun?  When I had my lower body lift recovery was a breeze, but my tummy tuck?  Oh my.  Let me tell you, it was
not
the walk in the park I thought it would be!”

Discarding my magazine, I studied her curiously.  “You’ve had work done before?” I repeated in disbelief.  I couldn’t help myself.  She looked absolutely flawless, and she seemed so open to talking about the work she’d had done that I figured it wouldn’t be rude to ask for details.

“Oh my, yes!” she laughed.  I noticed her face didn’t move much when she smiled.  “I’m just getting my nose done this time.  But it will be my eleventh surgery.   The last eight have been done here.  I’m practically a walking billboard for the clinic!” she joked.

“Wow.”

“I know, right?  I almost hate to go under the knife again but it’s necessary.”

“Are you like…a model or something?” I asked curiously. 

“I wish!” she giggled and then squeezed my arm affectionately.  “Bless you for saying that, but there’s no way I could ever be a model with this body!  That reminds me, I should probably ask the doctor about getting liposuction under my arms.  Look, isn’t this disgusting?” she held up her arm and pulled at her flesh, which looked perfectly normal to me.

“I don’t see anything wrong with your arm?”

“Aw, you’re just too nice to say anything about my flab, sweetie.”

Though I thought she was
nuts if she thought she had an ounce of flab on her perfectly proportioned body, I wasn’t about to argue with her.  “Are you glad you had all the surgeries?” I asked her.

“I suppose,” she said
, answering slowly, “Although it seems like as soon as I get one problem fixed another one pops up.  And I’ll be paying my loans until I’m ninety!  But I definitely look different than before…want to see a photo for comparison?”

“Yes!” I replied a little too eagerly.  I just had to see what the deal with her was…

As the woman pulled her wallet out of her purse and dug through it, I wondered what I was about to see.  I had images of an ugly duckling being turned into a swan one procedure at a time.  I mean, someone would have to be downright hideous to spend so much time and money on plastic surgery, right?

“Here we go!” the woman said triumphantly and handed me a small photo.

It was a wedding picture.  The bride and groom stood in front of a wedding cake smiling broadly.  He was handsome and she was an absolute knockout. 

“That’s…that’s you?” I asked incredulously.
  It looked like a completely different person, although by all appearances she’d been every bit as beautiful then as she was now.  And back then she’d been physically capable of smiling.

“Yep, that’s me ten years ago,” she said.  “Crazy, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

Moments later, she was called in for her consultation.  As I watched her
saunter off with the receptionist to discuss with the surgeon how her body would be sliced and diced this time, a pang of sadness hit me.  She had no idea how gorgeous she was.  All she could focus on was her imperfections.  She’d said herself that she was never satisfied, always finding new flaws to fixate on.  I didn’t know what flaws she was talking about.  What I’d give to look like her…

Clearly, my situation was different.  But how different was it?  I had a birthmark on my face, yes.  But it wasn’t a life threatening condition.  It wasn’t something that caused me pain or interfered with my ability to live my life…unless I let it.

Was I making a mistake, risking my health and spending my college tuition money on something that may or may not meet my expectations?  Would I be destined to a lifetime of low self-esteem and feelings of inadequacy if I had the plastic surgery but didn’t address the underlying issues?  I suddenly had the sense that I hadn’t thought this through nearly enough.

I stood up so quickly that my purse fell off my lap and onto the floor.
 

Scooping my purse up,
I walked over to the receptionist on legs that felt like jelly.  The clinic was a nice enough place, tastefully decorated with an upscale, posh ambience, but suddenly I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“The doctor’s just running a few minutes behind,” the receptionist told me apologetically as she looked up from her computer screen.  “He should be ready for you any minute.  Would you like a coffee while you wait?”

“Actually,” I replied, “I have to leave because um, something has come up.”

“Would you like to reschedule your consultation appointment?”

“Yeah okay…
” I began to say and then I hesitated.  Did I really want to reschedule?

Shif
ting from foot to foot, I tried again. “Actually, can I call the office to do that?  I’m uh…I’ll have to check my calendar before I reschedule.” That was an absolute lie, of course, and not even a very creative one at that.  But it was the best I could come up with.

“Of course –
just call back when you know what your schedule looks like and we’ll get you right back in as soon as we have an opening.  Have a nice day!” she chirped cheerfully, smiling brightly at me.

I couldn’
t get out of there fast enough.