Once upon a time, I wanted to have big American breasts. By the time I reached twenty-one, I felt ready to provide myself with what genetics had overlooked. A particularly buxom acquaintance recommended her plastic surgeon.
I scheduled my appointment, paid the consultation fee, and met with the doctor. Silicone implants in varying sizes lined his desk, and volumes of black binders filled with “before & after” photos adorned his shelves. I was on the precipice of my dream!
I posed for my “before” photo, filled out paperwork and prepared to set the date. That is when the doctor informed me of a “perk” that was the deal breaker. Post-surgery, I would be chauffeured home in a limousine for all the neighbors and lookie-loos to see. Driven through town, heads turning, necks snapping, to see who, in this tiny town of 19,000 was riding in a limo. It seemed utterly mortifying! I wanted a side of dignity and a heaping helping of privacy when I brought my new hooters home.
There would be no implants for me, but things have a way of working themselves out. With time, age and pregnancies, my cups runneth over.
• Has a limo altered your path?
• Did you grow up in a small town?
• Has a doctor ever said/done anything that made you rethink surgery?
Quick Review: Bobbi, your sandbar hurt me. The sand was so rough it was akin to rubbing cut glass on my legs. A bit harsh? Yeah, so was your sandbar until the sandy layer washed away after only two uses. Now I am left with a 1″x2″ bar of beach-scented soap.
Rocking OPI’s – Sweet As Annie-Thing! from their 90210 Collection.
Get Your Shopping Groove On!
in an evening gown, gloves, and diamonique. Surely this violated McKinley’s dress code. Come on! I can only accept so much!
