Friday, July 8, 2011

Don't Pray For Me

I'm undergoing surgery for wrist tendinitis in five days. I almost had this surgery done last year, but at the last moment I backed out, maybe because one of my customers, on finding out, immeditaley said a prayer for me. It freaked me out a little, made me feel like death was a real possibility. It doesn't help that I always remember unusual and frightening  stories of unexpected tragedies. Like the couple who chose to improve themselves by getting liposuction. The woman went first, and died on the table. The man decided maybe it wasn't such a good idea, and canceled his surgery. Understandable, I'm thinking. And then there was the story some years back, of the author of The First Wives Club. She went under the knife to have that little bit of fat under her chin removed, and, you guessed, died under anesthesia.
I think I'll keep my extra chin. And my love handles and laugh lines---but maybe not the gray hair. I don't think anyone has ever died from hair dye. I should look it up. No, I shouldn't.
I suspect I'll live through this, but if this is my last sure and read Betty Being Bad, as it is currently my only published story.
Along with all my other projects I'm working on a novel that has lots of plot, and only a little sex. I need at least one story that I can proudly show my mother, daughter, son, in-laws, etc.
So, wish me luck, but please, don't  pray for me.

No comments:

Post a Comment