A Patient's First Visit to a Plastic Surgeon

womans face being touched by gloved hands

A writer finds renewed acceptance after leaving an appointment with a plastic surgeon — without going under the knife.

Bill Diodato/Gallery Stock

When I separated from my husband of 28 years, I decided it was time to work on myself, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I went to see a plastic surgeon.

I was 55, had three children — all C-sections — and the only weights I lifted regularly were a hair dryer and a glass of wine. That said, I had recently slimmed down (the divorce diet: expensive but worth it) so I thought I looked pretty good. Boy, was I wrong.

The surgeon took a pen and went full Picasso on my body. Apparently not much about me was “pretty good” in his eyes. I needed a complete remodel. Standing in front of that mirror, marked up like a butcher diagram, I felt vulnerable and inadequate. Who would want to date someone like me?

When I got home, I told my kids what had happened, and they set me straight. “No more body shaming!” they said. They urged me to accept and love my wonderful, womanly, lived-in body.

I can’t say I was able to instantly oblige them, but I started working on it. And I realized that my un-flat belly and surgery scar represented my greatest accomplishment: my kids.

That was four years ago. I never went back to that doctor, but I have been on plenty of dates in this womanly, lived-in body of mine. And I’ve never had one complaint.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.