Two and a half pounds. That's how much breast doctor shaved off my chest in the winter of Enough that my DDDs became pert Cs. Not enough that anyone who knew me assumed something dramatic happened, other than perhaps, an oddly specific weight loss.
Not that I had anything to be ashamed of — last year alonewomen had the procedure, making it one of the most popular plastic surgery options. Before going under the knife, I hadn't voluntarily spent much time in a doctor's office.
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From a sexy infection streaking up my reduction, to a Tiny Tim-style cough, my response was always "let's wait and see. Be very precise when Googling any part of the female anatomyI took the plunge. Or accepted the cut.
To be honest, I'm not sure what the correct metaphor would be here — two days after the surgery, I found a sexy bitches fucked step guide to the procedure in a folder of after-care instructions and momentarily blacked out. The procedure itself was a non-event.