Rosie Tits Meets Her Surgeon

One kilo, maybe two.

Maybe one kilo on one side, two on the other.

Two-thirds.

The calculations are swimming in my addled brain.

Even then I'll probably end up as a DD cup.

Hot damn!

That's the assessment of my plastic surgeon whom I met today, the very nice and spirited Dr. Rockwell, a renowned plastic surgeon at the Ottawa Hospital. They say she has fairy hands.

The breasts that once nursed my children, and were the fantasy of news deskers everywhere, have thinned my skin and stretched beyond any recognition, like an over-used Slinky. About five pounds --that's what she needs to take off.
But when it's over, in two short hours, I have the promise of becoming a normal person again instead of a self-loathing woman with Old Stripper Boobs.
Sure, I'll have the scars to show for it, an accordion scar under the breasts, and ones around the nipples and straight down the middle. For a few weeks, I'll look like I did, in fact, fall off the turnip truck.

And as with all things worthwhile, the surgery will come at some personal discomfort.

First I have to lose weight. A lot of weight. I am currently at 218 pounds, and before she will see me again, I have to be 190 pounds. Over the next few weeks but hopefully not months, I'll have to lose a small child, and then an infant before she operates.

It makes sense to me, of course it does. Those extra pounds have been living in the shade of my enormous breasts, like mushrooms in a dung hole. The extra weight, she said, puts me at as much risk in surgery as if I had heart, kidney or lung disease.

The anesthetist won't even A-Okay me for surgery until I have a BMI of under 30. I'm currently at 35.

Funny, I never thought of myself as obese. Just as a girl with big boobs.

Talk about a reality check.

The egg and the chicken.

It's fine, I told my surgeon.

There's no crying in baseball.

Besides, I am goal-oriented.

And I have the tools, a diet designed by a bariatric specialist which guarantees the kind of results I need to get over the coming months. There's no secret to it: keep a diary, weigh the portions, eat the right foods, hold the red wine.

And the tequila, Sheila, lay down and love me again.

I'm not sad, in fact, I'm excited, imagining a new me, boulder-free.

While other people are embracing walkers, and filling their dossettes with fortifiers, I'll have hooters that will be the envy of the geriatric set.

And a smokin' body to boot.

Can't wait to get this party started.