Pendulous Bosoms

Okay, here’s the deal. I have large breasts. I know – try to hide your shock. To anyone who knows me, that is certainly not a huge surprise. It’s also not a surprise that I don’t like my big boobs and never, ever have. I always promised myself that after I was done having children, I would do something about my uncomfortable ta-tas.

Well, today was the day I met with the plastic surgeon. I had called my insurance beforehand to make sure the doctor I chose is in my network and they assured me that she is. That didn’t stop the receptionist from giving me a hard time at the office. What is up with these people, anyway?

First I filled out the forms, having to list everything from my great-grandmother’s maiden name to the reason her dog died 50 years ago. After 30 minutes of filling out forms, I was ready. That’s when the botox-laden receptionist gave me the third degree about my insurance. The receptionist had to go down to the billing department to make sure it was accepted. She came back 20 minutes later. Sure enough, they take my insurance, just as I had told her three times. Grrrrr!

After being at their office for an hour, I finally got called back by the nurse, who mispronounced my name. Then, I got to watch a 15-minute video on breast reductions. Yes, I had been there an hour, and still had yet to see anyone resembling a doctor, but at least I got to enjoy their multi-media presentation. About 10 seconds into the presentation, they used the term “pendulous breasts” and I started giggling like I was in junior high. My friend Heather has a whole little bit she does with a funny voice and a strut where she talks about having “hispies” and “pendulous breasts.” The recollection was so funny, that I practically peed my pants

After that, the nurse asked me questions like, “How small do you want your breasts?” She seemed alarmed when I said, “Lady, you could slice them completely off with a machete and I would be perfectly happy.” Apparently, they don’t get many answers like that. She responded, “I’ll just put that you’d like a B cup.” Yeah, yeah.

Then I had to wait for the doctor who came in to meet me before I stripped so they could take pictures of me naked. The doctor seemed like lots of fun. She described the different types of incisions, and the possibility that your nipple can die, in which case they reconstruct a new one. (Eeek!) I had already resigned myself to the fact that after this, my nipples will be nothing more than decorative ornaments, and I’m okay with that. At least now if I ever want to get them pierced, I won’t have to worry about any pain, right? (My husband doesn’t find that the least bit amusing.)

Then the doctor told me that it was now in the hands of the mo-fo’s at the insurance company. The doctor writes them a letter, explaining why I would be a good candidate for a breast reduction, and then we wait and see what they say. Since I cannot afford this surgery on my own, I am pretty much screwed if they say no. She said they might give me flack because I am overweight. I asked if they realized that being overweight might have something to do with the fact that my breasts probably weigh about 30 pounds each. She just smiled. I was serious.

After that, another nurse came in to take pictures. That was fun. Imagine a mug shot . . . naked. They stood me in front of a blue background and started snapping away. When I smiled for the camera (because I just can’t help but smile in front of a camera), she said, “You don’t need to smile. We only take pictures from your shoulders down.”

Well hell, that’s even more scary. I like to think the fact that my breasts are so “pendulous” that I can tuck them into the waistband of my pants, is somewhat offset by my winning smile.

I wonder if those pictures are going to my insurance company, too. I forgot to ask that part. I now have visions of my boob shots floating around the desks of horny men at Cigna. Oh well, if it gets me approved, I’ll flash them in person.