So we’re less than 5 days out to B day. B as in breasticles. Next Tuesday. That sounds so unassuming. Oh, what are you doing next Tuesday? I was thinking we could have lunch. Gee, I would love to, but I’m getting breast augmentation surgery. How about the week after?
Lately, I’ve found myself spending a lot of quality time with my current set. I have started talking to them. I’m afraid they’re on to what’s happening, and their feelings are hurt. They look really sad. But then again, they have looked that way for some time now, thus the boob job.
These boobs have been through a lot. Two kids. Breast feeding. Piercings. That wet T-shirt contest in Savannah where we came in 2nd. They have always been there, my boobs have. They might not have always been the biggest or the nicest, but dammit, they have never let me down. I stripped with these boobs. I almost won a contest years ago to get new boobs with these boobs.
And now, I’m basically saying to them, you aren’t good enough. You, who have never let me down, are being replaced with a newer, better model. I would imagine it’s what the wife feels like when after 30 years of marriage and two kids, the husband comes home and says, Honey, I’m leaving you for my intern, Bambi. If boobs could cry, mine would be sobbing.
But much like that husband, my bags are packed and I’m in the car, heading to dirty hotel sex with Bambi. I’m locked in, and I’m going to do my best to get rid of the guilt over what I’m about to do the best way I know how: bottles and bottles of wine.
Us ladies are always stuck walking that delicate line between wanting to be beautiful by society’s standards, and wanting to be beautiful because yes, we are all beautiful (someone should write a song about that). As a die-hard feminist who refuses cook because I don’t want to be held down by ‘the man’(also, terrible cook), it is sometimes mind boggling that I am spending a shit ton of money to mold myself into what I think society wants me to be.
Then again, who doesn’t love boobies? Everyone loves boobies! Even little Mavbling, at the tender age of 9 months, always reaches for a handful of booby when being held by a woman. And really, is plastic surgery any worse than dying your hair? Putting on nail tips? Shaving your armpits? Once you start down that slippery slope that is altering yourself in any way, can you really draw a line? And if so, who do you think you are? The only difference between mascara and implants is placement and price. Either way, you’re making something look bigger.
Yes, I’m conflicted. But I’m also determined. And, the check has already cleared. No going back now! So next Tuesday, while you are all having your coffees and your lunches, I will be getting breasticated.
I’m taking a few days to recover, then I’m heading off on Mavrick’s family vacation. I will be spending 4 lovely days at Norris Lake in Tennessee. With fresh boobs smashed into a compression bra. So while everyone else is waterskiing, wakeboarding, and tubing, I will be waving from the dock. Gingerly. I’m sure those suckers are still going to hurt.
Which brings me to my final point. I don’t want anyone to know I got my boobs done. There is no way Mavrick’s family won’t know (couple of reasons. A.) See above mentioned compression bra, and B.) Half of them read this blog). And his family already thinks I’m out there. I don’t think I ever blogged about last Thanksgiving where I, fresh back to drinking after pregnancy and breastfeeding, decided to guzzle Long Island Iced Teas and red mystery ‘holiday shots’, that resulted in me passing out at 9:00 pm and waking in the morning to tell Mavrick that I had gotten ‘holiday shots’ all over his aunt’s white carpet. So ya. There’s that.
And work. I’m going to come back to work with some new topography, so to speak. I’m assuming that not a lot of people will ask me to my face, but I bet you there will be whispers. Actually, I work with some pretty forward people. They may just ask. Should I just announce, YES I GOT MY BOOBS DONE, and leave it at that? I don’t know.
So I’m totally conflicted, I feel bad for my current boobs, can’t wait to get my new boobs, don’t want anyone to know, but blogged about it, which I will then Facebook and Twitter, thereby ensuring that EVERYONE knows about. That’s just the kind of complicated person I am. And now I will be complicated with a killer rack.
Tata for now! (Get it! TATA. Like in boobs! I kill me)