All I Want For My Birthday Is...

So let's talk about life in the maw of the medical monster.

First off, instead of saber sharp incisors, this beast has itty-bitty toothlets. "The better for chipping away at you in relentless nibbles, my dear." His favorite appetizer is your dignity.

For example, there is the matter of nearly perpetual undress. In my case, an ever-growing number of strangers troop into underheated rooms to stare with insulting lack of prurience at my breasts.

Well, they aren't exactly breasts. They are more like outcroppings. Semi-spheres resembling those herb planter domes advertised on TV. The ones you pray not to find under your Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa bush.

Which is only the beginning of the absurdity.

At this point, the males among you might prefer to scroll down to the nice holiday stanzas just below this post. I assure you, there is nothing even approaching erotic about my mammary melodrama.

The ludicrous truth is that mine presently reside under my armpits. I have been applying deodorant to them for months now. I have also concocted a camouflage

At uglyundergarments.com, I found a bra with pockets on the inside. Into each pocket I shove half a sanitary napkin until they meet in the middle. "Ingenious," you might say were it not for the following visual.

Instead of disguising the rather wide valley between my outcroppings, I have created what I refer to with all due affection as my uni-boob. Straight across from mid-right underarm to mid-left. I could hardly wait for baggy sweater weather to begin.

My surgeon says, "No problem." Too bad her credibility has declined since the emergency re-do of her initial planter dome insertion and the outbreak on their surface of what looks startlingly like a staph infection.

Nonetheless, she assures me that on the 29th of this month, I will awaken from anesthesia sporting new seventeen-year-old breasts on my sixty-eight year old body. Having completed my stumble to that age three days before.

Those of you searching for birthday gift ideas might consider sending me to a meltdown motel. A special kind of spa with pillow replicas of problematic medical professionals to pummel at will in therapeutic delight.

Meanwhile, I have purchased Post-It's as bright as headlamps. On surgery day, I shall stick one on each side of my chest in anatomically appropriate positions. They will read, "Please, put it here."