I went from country-club wife and mother of high-school students to a single, 39-year-old “cougar.” In this weekly feature, I share with you the mind-boggling, head-scratching, is-this-someone’s-idea-of-a-joke moments from my single life. Consider this your invitation to my tremendous learning curve…
What a boob
When my ex repaid 20 years of love and devotion with “There’s someone else,” everyone thought the first thing I would do is seek revenge. Would I slash her tires? Make her a batch of cookies with Ex-Lax in them? Have someone shave her head while she slept? Or would I exact my revenge against him? Would I cut off the protruding parts of his body and dump them in a landfill somewhere? Would I stack all his worldly possessions in the yard, douse them with gasoline and torch them?
No. I would do none of those things. I had already been debased in the most horrific way when my husband succumbed to the cliché trappings of a midlife crisis. I would not be further humiliated by cheap theatrics and gauche acts of revenge. I would, however, do something for myself that I had long wanted to but lacked the selfishness to do so. That it happened to serve as an unintended act of revenge made my gift to myself all that much sweeter.
Living well (with big breasts) is the best revenge
Since I had given birth to and nursed two babies, my girls had headed south for the winter — and the spring, and the summer and the fall. I didn’t have much to brag about in the breast department anyway, and after nursing babies and then losing 20 pounds in three weeks after my husband’s charming revelation, my boobs looked a mess.
I’m a big gal — 5 feet 10 inches tall, and I always range in weight somewhere between 145 and 155. I have shoulders like a linebacker, a narrow waist and big ole baby-havin’ hips. I also have never had a chest proportionate to the rest of my figure. At 14, my daughter was bigger than I was. I remember taking her bra shopping for the first time, and when I asked her if she wanted a padded bra, she gasped and said, “No, Mom!” Under my breath I muttered, “b*tch,” because I’d never had a choice in the matter.
I’ll take two, please
Prior to the wheels coming off my marriage, I’d never been able to go through with having a breast augmentation. It’s every mother’s nightmare. “What if I die on the operating table, during a vain elective procedure, and my poor children have to answer, ‘How did your mom die’ with ‘Getting her t*ts done.'” No, I simply would not subject my children to that, nor would I spend the money.
Something in me snapped when my husband revealed his affair, and I decided, f*** it. I had sacrificed and dedicated my life to someone else my entire adult life for what? In the single most selfish act of my life, I got a boob job.
Do I regret it? Yes. I regret that I didn’t get these beauties done 10 years ago. I didn’t do anything huge or obnoxious, but for the first time in my life, I feel proportionate. And does it make me grin from ear to ear knowing my ex lived with my sad post-baby boobs and now can’t play with something he paid $3000 for? Damn right.
More from Miss B. Haved
When granny panties aren’t enough to keep you celibate
The day I learned my boyfriend was on Match.com
Overcoming that awkward “Do you have a girlfriend” moment