I’m a television junkie. Good TV (I still grieve the passing of Lost and The Sopranos), mediocre TV (I’m looking at you Supernatural and The Middle) and really, really horrible TV (anything starring Brett Michaels). 

But one of the my more embarrassing television enjoyments is the original 90210. It doesn’t matter what else I’m doing, if I hear the words “Donna Martin graduates” while channel surfing, I will stop and watch the whole life-affirming West Bev Class of 93 graduation.

It is an episode of 90210, during the whole Dylan-Brenda-Kelly triangle, that has been playing through my head the last few days. I can clearly picture Dylan sitting at a booth in the Peach Pit playing the golden oldie Have You Ever Had to Make Up Your Mind? on a loop, trying to decide which girl to date – Kelly or Brenda? Truly, a mind-numbing quadary in the early 90’s.

Now here we are, a few decades later and I have a huge decision to make and I simply do not know what to do.

Usually I’m a pretty decisive person. Go to law school? Yes! Accept my husband’s marriage proposal?  Without hesitation! Insist that my kids go to bed at 7:30 every night because I just can’t listen to the whining anymore? You betcha!

But determining which manner I’m going to have a plastic surgeon reconstruct my breast? I honestly have no idea.

There are three options, none of which I consider ideal. I could do an implant, I could do a tissue reconstruction, I could put off immediate reconstruction and come back to it later, or I could join a traveling freak show as the one-boobed lady. And, if I stop waxing, I could probably double as the bearded (or at least mustachioed) lady. I wonder if I’d get paid double for that.

I don’t like people telling me what to do. Or what not to do. I’m a little bit of a control freak and the idea of someone else making decisions is anathema (look at the SAT word usage!) to me. And that is all well and good but right now I’d give someone a million dollars if they could just tell me what to do! (Of course, that assumes I actually have a million dollars to give away.)

I hate not knowing what the best decision is. I hate not knowing how I’m going to look, feel, respond, live, or get through the day depending on which option I choose. When we were struggling with infertility, I used to say that I just wanted to know how it was all going to work out. If I could just see five years down the road to what the end result would be – kids or no kids – then I could deal with it. It was the unknown that was killing me then.

Now that bastard “the unknown” is messing with me again. Even more than the cancer, which is treatable and at some point will be nothing but an irritating memory of surgery and treatment.

Oh, Dylan, you and your sideburns don’t know how good you had it. Nat was always there with the great advice and a Megaburger. I could use both right about now.