After a decade of marriage, I assumed that having a man who isn’t my husband stare at my boobs would be more titillating.
But this situation is all business — just one of many consultations the plastic surgeon has booked this week in his Washington Square office. In my mind, there was going to be some touching. I thought maybe the doctor would push them back up to where they used to be — could be again! — while I small-clapped in delight. I knew he wouldn’t circle fat spots with a black Sharpie — that was way too Hollywood — but I thought there would at least be some kind of computer model, like on HGTV, where an animation pops up to show you how an ugly-ass den is going to be transformed into the great room of everyone’s dreams. I was hoping to have something tangible that I could get excited about. A takeaway of sorts, so I could go back and show my husband and say, Look! Look at all that I could be! And so I could start a tankini bonfire and get some triangle tops Amazon Prime-ed over.
There is none of that. Read more »