Tits-A-Swinging

Tonight over take out Chinese food, Hollaback Girl and I watched an episode of "What Not To Wear" on TLC. The poor fashion victim in this particular episode was prone to vagrant displays of trashy and fantastically revealing clothing. Clearly she was shooting for the Telemundo low grade novella look. Of course this forlorn dresser was ultimately made over into a pristine and tasteful convert, but there was one theme that ran throughout the show. The fashion victim referred to herself in the third person (which--HELLO!--only Diana Ross, Beyonce and Prince are allowed to do)and she built her wardrobe exclusively around her "girls," her pendulous and obtrusive breasts. In order for her to even consider an outfit, the girls had to approve. I don't know about you, but my tits are not the Siamese twins I look to for advice when considering a fashion purchase.

Breasts are a burden. Sure, they can be an asset. They can also be a weapon. I have never been overly fond of the appendages that adorn my chest. They require wrangling and roping. Overt trundling-can-cause-Elizabeth-Taylor-in-the-1970s-spillage. Jogging is still challenging. Duct tape sometimes seems like the only thing that keeps them stable. I do like having cleavage, I admit it, but there's a point when one can feel suffocated and overwhelmed by too much boobage. Ironically, I waited 15 years of my life to finally have them, then I hid them for the next 20 years because they seemed so overt. Now I flaunt them (tastefully) because, well, they're not going away anytime soon and they might as well see the sky now because they'll be seeing the sidewalk for the remainder of the ride.

I've never liked these saddlebags on my chest. They ruin the line of elegant clothing. I'll never be able to wear well a Thomas Pink tailored shirt. I love halter tops, but the mechanics of undergarments required to wear one is practically medieval. I'm tired of bras that don't fit. They are hot in the summer. I could go on all night. They are a burden.

When I get to this point of exasperation with my boobs, I consider having them taken down a few sizes. After all, I live in one of the best plastic surgery capitals of the world. A recent issue of New York Magazine featured their annual "Best Doctors" survey, devoting more than a few glossy pages to top plastic surgeons, specifically those devoted to ministrations of the breast. I've considered a reduction for years, always relenting at the last minute because I'm ashamed to spend so much money on something that seems like a frivolous vanity project. Still, I have the funds to do so and I'm now at a point when I really want to do so. Last week, I decided--I'm biting the bullet. Timber!! They're coming down!

Just as I had selected some surgeons to start my preliminary inquiries, fate intervenes today in the form of a phone call. An old boyfriend, who is now a law partner in an international equity firm in London, called me. We're friends now and chat occasionally. He's deliciously inappropriate, especially after he's had a long business lunch with a few glasses of good wine. After we exchanged greetings he said, "How are your fabulous breasts?"

What's a girl to do?