Word Count: 467
It was your birthday present to yourself. You’d saved up in a special account just in case you were still single when you turned thirty. It isn’t right, you know this; it isn’t the way it should be but men would always be men and flat-chested women don’t make the cut where physical attraction is the only way you can get a man to sit down and discover your mind. It’s unfair. It’s shallow. But it’s the one thing that never really changed.
All the years you’ve suffered low self-esteem. All the teenage frustration as the other girls grew and you didn’t. The prom where you alone didn’t wear strapless. That fancy pushup bra your mother let you buy that threatened to crawl up to your neck. When handfuls of tissues were stuffed in your bra. The humiliation when a boy tried to feel you up and you accepted the label of “prude” rather than be found out. The worst, the very worst: when the tissues shifted around and peeked out the short sleeve of your dress.
So you took a couple weeks off and called it “vacation.” You went to the best plastic surgeon you could afford. You didn’t ask for recommendations; all your girlfriends were Italian. Or Jewish. Or African-American and none of them shared your particular flaw. You chose a size 36B finished product, which doesn’t sound like a lot but for you was a very huge jump. You closed your eyes, fell asleep under anesthesia, dreaming of Marilyn Monroe, Pamela Anderson, and yes, Dolly Parton herself.
Now you can stand naked in front of a mirror. Now you can walk normally into a room. Now you feel you can take on the world! You buy that low, low cut little black dress. You go to the cocktail party feeling like a vixen, a goddess, sexy as hell and the men respond like you’ve dreamed. They hang around long enough to talk–really talk! You have choices. It’s crowded tonight and you, for once, have the upper hand so you mingle. But as you ease through the groups with your gimlet in hand, something feels terribly wrong.
You twitch, you sneak a peak in a mirror. You gasp as it becomes all too clear. Your left boob has slid down to your waistline. As you move, it drops beyond to your hip. With your gimlet held close to your chest like the pledge of allegiance, you frantically head for the ladies room in a stiff gaited slither. But it’s moving, it’s sliding, you feel it and just as you’re halfway there, it slips down your leg, trapped in a big bulbous 36B bump by your little black satin sandal.
You look down. You look up. You look down. And everyone stares.
