In which I channel Carrie Bradshaw

boob-jobs

So I went away for the weekend to an unnamed resort at an unnamed destination. Let’s call this place “Are You Kidding Me?” This designation does not come as a result of amazing food, exemplary service, marvelous architecture or even highbrow amenities not worth my hard-earned money (although, the shampoo and lotion weren’t half bad; I pilfered enough of them to get me through next week.)

My name choice was derived not from the location but rather from the clientele. Since there wasn’t anyone famous on the grounds, I couldn’t very well call the joint “You’re a Nobody and So Am I.” I had to come up with something more fitting. Unlike my bathing suit.

While lounging about the pool, I couldn’t help but notice that something was off kilter. I couldn’t place my finger on it. I probably didn’t want to until it finally occurred to me why. Or why not. Within moments I realized that I was the only woman (possibly on the entire premises) who has not been enhanced with implants of any kind. Not even dental.

This made me wonder if the current and future generations of boys will grow into men who have never had the benefit of knowing or feeling a woman’s bosom in its natural state. When, I wondered, (a la Carrie Bradshaw) had it become the “norm” to be female and come equipped with your own personal flotation devices? And what are the chances that my lack of them would coincide with a water landing?

I can remember all too well what it was like to be young, pretty and (compared to what I am now) nubile. But my generation is one that associates surgery with aging; we didn’t look at our bodies as “fixer uppers.” In real-estate terms, if we came with a modern, fully equipped kitchen, it meant we had been taught to cook.

Which is why I ended up in the non-hit series “No Sex and Not Quite the City.”

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