Boob job or botox?

I’m half way through my forties, and I plan to stay there.  As things have been going downhill, physically, since I hit forty, I figure there’s no sense in taking things beyond forty-five.  I matured from a near-sighted, flat-chested girl with pimples, to a near-sighted, flatter-chested woman with pimples.  While I was able to enjoy normal-sized breasts during my three pregnancies, the years in which my skin was supposed to clear up must have happened one night when I was sleeping sometime around my thirties.  I didn’t know that for every cup a pregnancy added to my bra size, it would later take away a cup and a half.

But it’s all good now. While for years I agonized between laser eye surgery and a boob job, I decided to forego all that and let my son, Miles, go to college instead.   In the meantime I’ve learned to love my double As because I’m not tripping over them in the cereal aisle, and I don’t have to worry about my husband rolling over on one of them when he’s sleeping.  Now that I need reading glasses, in addition to my contact lenses, to read a cocktail menu, it seems silly to bother with eye surgery.  Unless of course your talking about botox, the spa treatment du jour, although I do have friends who say they’ll go for the full-on face lift when the time comes.  Since I am pretty sure my other kids would be angry and insulted if I spent their college money on botox, when the time comes for me, I’m going to ditch my friends and start hanging out with the crowd at the retirement home, just to keep myself looking hot.

Thankfully I have a fantastic self-image and am concerned about sending the right message to my daughter and my nieces: It’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts!!  Right???  Sure, my daughter can prance around the house with her giant boobs and cleavage, rude as it is that she surpassed my bra size within an hour of developing, but I remind her frequently that nobody is young forever, and some day she will be struggling to keep little kids from running over her nipples with their Big Wheels.   After she reminds me that nobody born in the last 20 years has ever heard of a Big Wheel, she gets me back in kind by offering me her old bras as hand-me-downs that I’ll never fit into.  And yes, it’s true that I refuse to sit within 100 yards of her at the beach, but she knows not to take it personally, as I refuse to sit within 100 yards of anyone who looks more than five years younger than me.

Luckily, Maverick, my husband, loves me just the way I am. He can say so without snickering, so I have to believe him.  But a girl’s got to think about her future, and as the women on my side of the family live long into their nineties, I have to make plans for life after Maverick leaves this earth for the great, ice hockey rink in the sky.  I know that some women try to get back out there in the dating world, but swear to god I can’t imagine being them.  Men have gotten really weird since I got hitched and nowadays are into all sorts of crazy stuff that I won’t describe, not so much because I don’t want this blog to be x-rated, but because I’m not quite sure how to explain it all.  Suffice to say I would die of thirst on a date before I asked a man for a teabag.  Furthermore, by the time I’m an old broad I’ll have had enough of men altogether, and don’t think that I’ll be looking for a new one.

It’s likely, however, that I might desire a companion, and that’s why I’m considering becoming  what I like to call  a “late-in-life lesbian.”  My perfect lesbian mate is someone who can share my brassieres, who likes sing-a-longs, and knows her way around a cocktail shaker.  Oh, and who doesn’t mind not having sex.  Sure we can “date” but my version of lesbian 69 will be more like a 96….back to back, with sex organs as far away from each other as possible.  So after an extensive search among my heterosexual friends, I’m happy to announce that I have found my late-in-life lesbian partner, and we are committed to changing our lifestyles after our husbands kick the bucket.  I can’t tell you who she is because I don’t think she’s told her kids yet, and she’s a little nervous she’ll be edged out of the PTA.   Plus, I don’t want to make the rest of you flat-chested girls jealous.