In case you have just recently recovered from a head injury resulting in memory loss and/or lost your ability to read, you pretty much know I’m getting my breasticles done.
Getting one’s breasticles done is a life-altering decision. You will forever not be the same, for better or for worse. You will live with the results until the day you die, and much like the people who make airplanes, you don’t want to go with the lowest bidder.
I have done extensive research. I have joined Angie’s List, I have tweeted, I have queried the few people I know who have had the procedure, and I have Googled extensively. All of this allowed me to narrow it down to my Top Three. I had my first appointment last week, and it went thusly:
My alarm went off at 6: 00am, and I stretched and smiled and sang a song to a spring- time robin that had perched on my window sill. HAHAHAHA. Just kidding. I flew out of bed, late, because I had drank an entire bottle of wine the night before, and was up twice with the baby, who is convinced that we love hanging out with him at 4:00 am.
I flew into the shower, threw on whatever clothes I could find, kissed the baby, grabbed my coffee and flew out the door. My consult was at 8, so I had to fight rush hour traffic. About half way though rush hour traffic I wondered to myself if I would have to strip all the way done to my undies, or just to the waist. And this was important to me, because if I had to get down to my skivvies, the doctor was in for a treat. I was pretty sure I was wearing the oldest, rattiest pair of panties I owned. And that’s saying a lot.
Great. Now I’m getting nervous. Not only am I going to have to strip down in front of a complete stranger, now he’s going to know that I own and wear inferior underpants.
By some miracle, I make it on time. I locate the building, park, and head inside. It’s on the 5th floor of said building. I get on the elevator, hit 5, the elevator goes up, the door opens, and I am inside of a giant marble vagina.
Everything is pink. And marble. Lots and lots of marble. Floor, walls, ceiling. It looked like the planet Superman was from, but a vagina.
There were three women stationed behind the front desk. And every single one of them had multiple surgeries. Never had I seen such perfect bosoms, flawless foreheads, and frozen smiles. It was lovely. I’m sure it’s a job hazard when one works for a plastic surgeon. Sort of like when I gained ten pounds working at a local bakery in high school. Only I ate a lot of cupcakes as opposed to Botoxing my face into submission.
I had to fill out the requisite paperwork, and wait. Now I was really nervous. I began to leaf through some stuff on the tables. And opened right up to graphic photos of someone getting their arm fat removed. It looks about as gross as it sounds. The only way I am going to through with this is if I do not think about what they will be doing to me while I’m under.
The Dr. was ready to see me. He was nice as nice could be. I explained to him that I didn’t want to go big, I just wanted them put back where they started, as it was starting to look like they were making a run for it.
We chatted for about ten minutes, then he and the assistant took me back to the exam room. I only had to strip down to my waist, so my underwear secret was safe. He then proceeded to take several minutes to dictate to his assistant everything that was wrong with my boobs. Turns out, it’s a lot. The assistant had to grab a second piece of paper, and I think her pen ran out of ink.
Then, we get to take pictures! 3-D pictures with some fancy camera that makes you want to kill yourself! You just have to stand there with your arms out like Jesus on the cross, and wait for that evil camera to take a 360, 3-D, Panoramic picture that is guaranteed to have you signing up for all sorts of plastic surgery! I hope those 5th floor windows are break-proof. I’m sure I’m not first woman who wanted to fling myself out of them.
He then hands me a basket of implants and a bra, and tells me to have at it. I go into a frenzy. I try on the really, really big ones, just for laughs. I try on the medium ones. And I settle on a 305cc small one. Want to see my tits?
We then get down to money. $8100. I almost choke. For that kind of money, these babies had better load and unload my dishwasher, perform blow jobs on my boyfriend, and change dirty diapers. That was a little bit more than I wanted to spend, but this guy is literally supposed to be the best in town.
I have a consult next week with the second Dr. I will see what he has to say, and pray he doesn’t have one of those satanic 3-D soul crushing cameras. I will also make sure I’m wearing my good panties. Just in case.