Chickens Don't Have Nipples

Not me

Had I been more of a risk taker, I would be a proud new owner of a pair of bright pink nipples right now.

However, I am not risky, which is why I’m destined to have my Barbie breasts for a little while longer. But this summer things will change. This summer I’m going to sit down with Dr H and his nurse, and he’ll give me my finishing touches.

But it could have been so different. Yesterday, Wingman and I were sitting in the waiting room at the Breast Lounge at Princess Margaret Hotel and Spa. I’d scheduled an appointment to reassess my ‘aggressive’ scars. At my previous appointment, I’d been told that I had to do a bit more healing before I got my nips.

So we were in the waiting room when a nurse called my name. ‘Are you ready for your procedure?’ She asked. My face must have been as expressive as a potato.  ‘Procedure?’ I squeaked. She nodded and said it would only take about a few hours. Was I ready?

My first thought was that anything that took over one hour would cost me a $35 parking ticket. My second thought was that nobody was going anywhere near me with any knives – and what is it with these receptionists and their inability to schedule things correctly? I was still smarting from being stood up by my breast surgeon, and had lost a bit of faith in the system. Dr H however, was still golden. He’d done nothing to disappoint, and I would be lying if I said I hadn’t put a little thought into the underpants I’d chosen for that day’s get-together.

‘So,’ he said ‘when I saw him a few minutes later. ‘I hear you’re not ready?’ I shook my head and he smiled, ‘Okay, we’ll do it another time.’ He rolled over on his little doctor stool and fixed his baby blue eyes on my nippleless breasts. He put one finger in the centre of each and said ‘We’ll do one right here, and one right here’. He explained that it’s a quick and simple procedure where they do a bit of building from existing materials – sort of like origami.

Because I couldn’t absorb what he was saying, I went directly to my favorite coping mechanism; the shutdown.  While he talked medicine, my mind wandered to his right ear, ‘Hey. Do you have a piercing?’ I blurted. He nodded as thought that was a perfectly normal segue. ‘Yes,’ he said. He’d had it pierced when he was sixteen, and it angered his father.

I had a few more personal questions in my arsenal but I came back down to earth. I asked about my Spong-bob waist. He pulled out a Sharpie and drew a sloppy ellipsis on my side where he would make an incision and do a bit of lipo. This would all happen under a local anesthetic, in the very room we were in. Behind Dr H, was the bed on which I’d lie.  I looked at it, and he followed my gaze, ‘We could do it right now. If you want to.’

For a split second I faltered. I could spend the afternoon with the handsome doctor and walk out a few hours later with an hourglass figure and headlights before I even had time to get scared! It would be that simple!

But I chickened out. I didn’t have time for a guided meditation or an Atavin. Plus, I have plans this week that don’t involve nipple protectors. (Gross fact; they’re pretty huge to start, and eventually shrink down to normal). Yuck.

So we shook hands and I closed my robe. Or maybe it was the other way around – I can’t remember. And as soon as I was dressed I was already regretting being such a big chicken. So as soon as I was in the lobby I called Dr H’s secretary and told her I was ready to make an appointment for my procedure.

So she gave me one. And I only have to wait sixty-eight days!