So I'm dating a plastic surgeon now...

And we're enjoying the warm Spring weather and talking about Spring fashion and beauty trends over lunch. I've never noticed it before, but he has a distinctive English accent just like James Bond.

Me: You're so fabulous.
Him: Awww. No you're fabulous!

I smile at him. He purrs affectionately at me. I reach for my coffee (scratch that), raise my de-lish cocktail for a toast when I glance up and realize that he appears to be looking at me sweetly, but is really scanning my facial imperfections. Oh my bloody hell, he's mentally reconstructing my face!

I can just picture it, he's stretching my forehead so tightly it begins to rip. Eyes are lifted, fine lines pressed and lips injected beyond any recognition. I can't take it anymore. I excuse myself from the table. He stands up as the lady (me) leaves the table and examines the rest of my figure. No, he's not checking me out. He's nipping and tucking the hell out of me. I know his perfectionist, narcissistic type.

I become growingly annoyed at his fixed stare on my ass and sit back down.
Me: That's it! I can't believe you're perfecting me with your mental nips and tucks!
Him (surprised): Wot? Wot are you talking about? You're bloody gorgeous!
Me: Oh, don't patronize me you walking scalpel, I've had it!
Him: But I think I love you.
Me: You are such an ass. Making me over into some fake plastic tree! Just forget it. We are sooo over.

Yep, that's pretty much how it goes down. My 30 second fantasy of dating a plastic surgeon isn't hot or sexy. It simply goes down in flames without a boob job to show for it.