It’s time to get my boobs done.


I want a boob job.
Oh, shut up.
It’s not a matter of being greedy. I know my secrets are already too big for Victoria to keep, and my current bras are, like the best suspension bridges, already marvels of engineering. I believe they could support eighteen-wheelers speeding across the Hudson, and still have the capacity to carry every runner in the New York marathon. My boulder-holders are strong.
It’s not a matter of vanity, either. I am sixty two years old, and the only part of my anatomy that is currently perky or forthright is my nose… the one perfect feature on my otherwise gravity-challenged frame. My mammaries may appear to be staring cross-eyed at my knees, but that’s really no reason to invade them surgically. They’re kind of endearing this way, like a pair of tired old beagles at the pound, that only the kindest soul will adopt.
It’s a matter of perspective.
When I was young, I had an hourglass figure. My chest was ten inches larger than my waist, and two inches smaller than my hips. I kind of resembled Betty Boop, and honey, I got an awful lot of mileage out of that phenomenon. I wielded my puppies like a double-barrelled shotgun, and they were killer.
They were very useful when I was onstage, of course… you can’t imagine how much atrocious acting an audience will tolerate while they’re waiting for an actress in Elizabethan garb to have a nip slip. But they were very useful in the corporate world, too. While I was working as a marketing writer for an insurance company, my department reported a to V.P. who had a known weakness for well-endowed women. Whenever I had to bring him a first draft to review, I would wear a lavender knit dress with strategically placed eyelets, worn over a skin colored bra. The poor fool never knew what hit him; he’d stare at my front for fifteen or twenty minutes while chatting inanely, trying to figure out whether he was really seeing what he thought he was looking at. Finally, he’d put his stamp of approval on whatever I’d presented to him. My coworkers would seethe; this man never approved anyone else’s work the first time it was presented to him. I never divulged my secret… and I’ve been giggling about it for a good thirty-five years.
Those days are over, of course, but I’ve never forgotten what I learned: There’s an awful lot of power in a good pair of tetitas.
As my figure expanded and my vanity diminished, I stopped using the girls as strategic tools. In fact, I took them for granted, even though I must say they always retained a happy sway over my husband, for which I was… and am… very grateful.
But recently, something has happened.
I’ve been perfectly content for many years to select my clothes from the Sam Walton collection. After all, I have not attended any events where I could not wear stretchy black pants and some variant on a t-shirt. But now, I have to attend a number of events that call for clothes that Walmart doesn’t sell. I found appropriate outfits on Etsy and Amazon, but as I was trying to place my orders, I had to give them my size… and to determine that, I needed to state my measurements.
Measurements? Really?
I took out the measuring tape I’d bought when I had to buy bathroom curtains, and proceeded to measure my chest, waist and hips.
My hips are still twelve inches larger than my waist… but my waist and my chest are now exactly the same size!!!
When the hell did that happen?
I took off my top and ran to the mirror. (Boy, I hope the shutters were closed!)
The front view was depressing, but familiar. Then I looked at myself from the side. Damn! I looked worse than pregnant; it appeared that Tolkien’s Gollum was hitching a ride under the skin of my belly!
I decided to look at pictures of myself from the last few years, to see if I could figure out when my middle overtook my top. I couldn’t pinpoint the moment when the change occurred, but I did find something significant: a picture from Halloween three years ago, when I dressed up as Brunhilde. To build up that warrior-woman’s legendary decolletage, I sewed a pair of children’s army helmets on to a camouflage shirt, and covered both in matching fabric.
I wound up with a pair of McGupps that could have ignited the fires of Gotterdammerung.
But you know what? As I looked at the picture, I realized something disturbing: those humongous promontories made the rest of me look smaller! My waist appeared less prodigious; my hips weren’t quite so excessive.
And I looked powerful as all get out.
I’ve decided I want to look like Brunhilde all the time.
The question is, of course, how can I get this done? And where? I understand it’s impossible to get implants larger than 800 cc.’s from a licensed plastic surgeon here in the United States; considering my current size, they’ll make me look like I’m sporting big pimples. I’ll have to get the sort of heroically large implants that are only available from disreputable surgeons operating in the South Pacific, familiar with the size and shape of a good, firm coconut.
I’m going to have to spend an awful lot of money on these babies, too… enough money for a new car… or new floors… or even a state of the art exercise machine, which could help me work my belly off.
But what fun would that be?

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