A Poke in the Eye

About a year ago I decided I needed a breast reduction. My boobs were ginormous. I had always had large breasts, but now they were ridiculous. I was a 36F or FF or some such shit.  Before I had ever been pregnant, I was a 34D. Which was fine with me, I’m tall and not skinny, so I could carry them just fine. But, like all women, while I was pregnant and breast feeding my boobs got bigger. Much bigger. And when I was done breast feeding, they stayed the same size. After the other two pregnancies, they got bigger still. Ugh. So by the time my youngest was almost a year, I had had enough. They had fed 3 babies and were not perky, by any stretch of the imagination. They also hurt my back, neck and shoulders and cost a fortune to house. Bra manufacturers get away with charging and arm and a leg for gigantic bras. Not to mention you can only buy these sizes at Nordstrom or on the websites porn stars and strippers use. At 40 I was too old for porn star tits. Particularly since I didn’t have a porn star body.

So I started asking friends and friends of friends for the names of plastic surgeons they had used for the same procedure. I compiled my list and set about setting up consultations with the surgeons. One of my friends is wealthy and I knew her surgeon was used to that class of clientele. I wanted to look the part as best as I could. He had to believe I could afford the surgery or he might just send me out on my ass. I put on a nice pair of slacks, blouse and heels. And the few diamonds I have for good measure.

When I arrived at the doctor’s office I wasn’t surprised to see it was pretty posh and his receptionist had the Hope diamond around her neck. I’m taken back to an exam room where I strip from the waist up and put on one of those little hospital gowns. I park my butt in the chair and flip through Town & Country while waiting for the surgeon.

In he walks. A sort of mini Dapper Don with his expensive custom Italian suit and diamond pinkie ring. Also? He was 5 feet tall. I’m 5’9″, 6 ft with those heels on. Are you beginning to get the picture?

He was five feet tall.

I was a statuesque Six Feet in those heels.

So we chat and I’m really biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing cause I’m super mature. I mean I couldn’t take it! Here was Don Corleone shrunken down to a wee man. These kinds of things give me the giggles. Particularly if I’m a bit nervous. Talking about having my boobs chopped down was slightly nerve racking.

Then comes the point in the consultation when he needs to see what he is dealing with. So he asks me to stand up and remove the robe. STAND UP and remove the rope. There I am and there he is. A foot shorter than me. EYE LEVEL WITH THE GIRLS!!! If he’d just stuck his tongue out while measuring the distance from my areola to my arm pit he would have licked my nipple!

It gets better. I’m facing a full length mirror. So while I am trying to just pretend this isn’t happening so that I don’t laugh so hard I piss my pants, I can see the whole thing in the mirror two feet in front of me! And? It was freaking hilarious! I bit the inside of my cheeks so hard they bled! I couldn’t look anywhere! If I looked at the top of his head, the mirror or the nurse I was absolutely going to lose it.

I did have the breast reduction. But Dapper Don was not my surgeon.