My daughter and I were chit chatting in the car when the radio station stopped playing music to announce their newest contest, “Have your Breast New Year Ever.” To be honest, I thought it was a catchy title. It seems that if you enter the contest and win, you get a free boob job–I’m sorry-breast augmentation from one of the finest cosmetic surgeons in the Philadelphia area.
Before my daughter even had a chance to comment, the words spilled out of my mouth. “NO, you are not entering that contest! I don’t care if you are 23 and can make your own decisions, and thanks to all the HIPAA laws, I am not even allowed to know your height and weight. I am telling you as your mother that if you even consider this contest, I will disinherit you.”
“You are just assuming that I want to enter,” she snapped back. “I didn’t say I wanted to do it – for sure. I was just thinking about it. But they are giving a $6,000 boob job for free.”
“What is wrong with the boobs you have now? They are perfect.”
“Perfect? If you haven’t noticed, I don’t have boobs.”
Okay, in her defense, this is true. My daughter is a very little person – everywhere. However, adult or not, I was not going to let her enter a contest where her breasts would be the topic of conversation during the morning drive time show. I was going to try to reason with her, but I knew that once I dug in my heels, she was going to dig in her heels as well. That is what she does. She waits to see where I stand on something and argues the opposite way. I think she does this just to see how quickly she can get my asthma to act up. I had not yet started to wheeze when I wondered aloud how they were going to report the progress of this contest.
“Are they going to post your picture on the station website and have people vote to see who gets the boob job? And if you win, are you going to be on billboards around the greater Philadelphia region? Won’t your father be so proud to see a 30x 60-foot, before-and-after photo of his only daughter’s breasts hovering over the expressway each morning on his way to work? Oh better yet, how about I invite your 80-year-old grandparents down to visit, and maybe while they are driving on the turnpike, they can see just what you have been up to!”
I tried a new tack.
“This involves stitches. ICK! You are interested in this? Have you seen the plastic surgery disasters show on E! ?”
I think I got her with the E! Special that showed all the celebrity plastic surgeries that went wrong. It’s sad that I had to resort to scare tactics, and I know she is an adult, but as long as she is living under MY roof…wait, my mother just flew into my brain there. Crap! I am becoming my mother!
I was so engrossed in the thought that I had now become my mother ( although she is damn fine looking woman who looks about 20 years younger than she is without any plastic surgery, and I am saying this because she reads my stuff, and I don’t want her to get insulted) that I forgot all about the boob contest. I started to think when this transformation could have taken place. Was it during my daughter’s teen years? It couldn’t have been then. I was still young then. It wasn’t while she was away at college. Those were my real freedom years, and there was no reason to turn into my mother. No, I think the transformation took place in my car – just a few minutes ago. Yep, just like that, in one second, I became my mother.
Well, what’s next? Do I have to think about retirement? Probably not because I think the recession wiped that out. Do I have to think about moving to a 55- and-over-community? How many years in advance do I have to book that reservation? Should I give up running and, instead, do aqua-cises at the gym with the nice old ladies? I have to admit that this car ride with my daughter opened up a lot of emotion for me, and suddenly my daughter’s boobs were not that important.
“Mom…Mom, are you with me? If I don’t do this contest, I might get a boob job down the road.”
” That’s fine. You’re a smart girl. You will make the right decision. Do you think I’m Grandma now? “
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Do you feel like ice cream? Suddenly, I feel the need for a sundae with lots and lots of chocolate.”
“Why are you PMSing?”
“Yes, I think I am – thank God.”
Good thing I’m already a giant “boob”. haha
HA HA! Punny but so untrue Jack!
My mother always insisted I was just like my father and my father always insisted I was just like my mother. Therefore, I don’t know which one of them I eventually turned into. Does that make me a confused mess, or what?
I’m going to learn from your experience and not even attempt to stop my 6 year old son, if and when he wants a boob job!
Oh, Bill, I am so glad my experience will help you deal with your 6-year-old-son in the future. I feel as if there was a true purpose in sharing the boob experience. 🙂