Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt

position, everything looked fine, if not slightly lovely. One night as I rolled over in bed, my eyes caught a glimpse of something I can’t bear to ever see again as long as I draw air. I screamed a real bloodcurdler. My original boobs, which, as I mentioned, had suddenly grown and gained a good bit of weight and new tissue, had up and slid right off the Mentor 350s anchored to my rib cage.

      “Stuart!” I yelled. “Please come up here. Something horrible has happened.”

      “What now? Another fake heart attack?”

      He was referring to the winter I called 911 three times and went by ambulance to the ER swearing like Fred Sanford and saying, “This is it! This is the Big One,” convinced my palpitations were a heart attack.

      After about thirty minutes of hearing me moan and freak out, he finally trudged upstairs.

      “Come here,” I said. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

      He shook his head as if to say, “Great. Here we go again. Brown recluse bite this time? Ebola virus? Giant lumps on scalp indicating exterior brain tumors?”

      “What?” he asked.

      “Just wait a sec. I’m going to have to lay down to show you.” I climbed in bed and removed my shirt and bra. At first, his eyes lit up and ear tips glowed red with lust. “Get over here. You can’t see it until you come over toward this side of the bed.”

      He was clearly frustrated and wondering what his weird wife had done this time. I leaned over and let my original breasts roll right off the implanted Mentor 350s. Believe me, the saline rounds will stay put forever. I could go to the nursing home and they’d still be right up there even when my nipple and areola package hit my knees.

      “See? See this? These, rather?” I pointed to my udders.

      “No. I don’t see anything but a naked woman laying on her side acting crazy.”

      “Here. Are you blind? Put on my magnifying glasses.”

      He reluctantly slid them onto his ears, probably thinking that if he obliged he may get some later, and since I was already half naked…“Lean close and tell me what you see.”

      He bent toward my chest. “I see boobs. Big ones. Redneck titties is what I see.”

      “See? I told you. Boobs!!! Not a pair, not a set, not a couple…but boobs. Boobs galore! How many are you seeing?”

      He literally snorted, bull-like, and backed off as if an alien inhabited the Sealy. “And if I twist my body over the other way, same thing. Tell me the truth. HOW MANY DO YOU SEE?”

      He shook his head and turned on the TV.

      “I’m calling the doctor!” I cried out when he began cussing ESPN and not paying my udders a bit of mind.

      “You better call the shrink,” he mumbled.

      “Are you saying you don’t see four?”

      “Four what ?” He turned off the game and came back to the bedside, God love him. I picked at my breasts, lifting and flipping them about like boneless cutlets so he’d be able to count better. “Four. Four tits. Look, fool.”

      “No. I see what appears to be some form of malfunction, but I am the one who told you not to get that bimbo shit in the first place.”

      “I never knew they’d multiply with age,” I yelled. “I don’t only have two fake boobs, but, as you can see, I have grown my originals to the point they’re quite migratory and have a mind of their own and left the anchored pads the doctor put in.”

      He snorted more and yawned. “I’m going to bed. You may want to get some rest. You could be seeing things.”

      “I’m having a mammogram tomorrow, so I’ll just tell them about the multiplication of my teats. They’ll have equipment to prove it. I’ll just lay down on their dirty old tile floor and show them I have four and not two like most women.”

      He shook his head and shut the door. I scooped my four breasts back into place in their bra cups and hurried to my laptop, clicking onto my saving grace, www.implantinfo.com, the lovely Nicole’s Web site where there’s a chat room with tons of support and wonderful ladies (and men with implants, too). They are the ones who helped me get up the courage for the operation to begin with.

      “Help!” I typed, using my pen name, Sally. “I’ve got a problem.”

      After the other chatters finished up their conversations about how big they’d gone and what kind of bras to buy, someone noticed my plea for help.

      “What’s up, Sally?”

      “Well, they finally dropped, like y’all said they would, but I think they’ve done more than just drop.”

      “What do U mean?”

      “I have four. I look like the underbelly of a goat or cow when I lay down on my side.”

      About six chatters started writing things like, “LOL, I’m laughing my ass off.” and “Oh, my God.” and “You’ve got to be kidding.”

      One even wrote, “Wow. Your husband is one lucky man.”

      “Don’t pout,” one woman said, “I am growing a set of back tits. I put on a bra and tight sweater and my husband said, ‘Hon, you’ve got bigger tits under your shoulder blades than you do up front. You’d think you could get a four-cup bra for those suckers.’”

      “Hey,” I wrote. “I’m needing the four-cup bra, too. What can I do? I swear they are OK when I stand up or lay flat on my back, but once I roll over, say, to be sexy and gaze into the eyes of my man, all he does is stare in disbelief and pretend he only sees two tits instead of the four any other human being could see and count.”

      The chatters had a field day and hissy fits of laughter.

      “Sounds like you need a lift,” one of them said.

      “I got a lift,” I said.

      “Sounds like you need some Gorilla Glue,” another said.

      “I already thought of that, too, but when I asked at Lowe’s if you could use it on the breast tissue they called Security.”

      “Is there some sort of procedure the doctor can do where he stitches the real breast tissue onto the round Mentor mounds?”

      Oh, mercy.

      “Enjoy them,” a woman said. “Think about this. You get older every year and your original models are going to fall farther and farther south. By the time they’re at your abdomen, you’ll still have the two humps up top and maybe nobody will notice the lumps in your pants. If they fall low enough you can just say you have a set of balls.”

      I loved that line. I loved all these chatters. “Wait till you get a mammogram,” wrote Cindy Big’uns, who’d been silent in the chat room up until now. “I had mine last week, and ain’t nothing now where it ought to be.”

      “What do you mean?” I panicked. “My mammogram’s tomorrow.”

      “You think you got problems with four tits? Wait till you throw them suckers on the Old Smasheroma and that nurse tries to flatten everything out and see if you don’t come out screaming and all lopsided. I had one pop right then and there on the table, and it made such a loud noise we thought a gun had gone off. Half the lobby screamed.”

      I knew that most of the time, mammograms were fine and good screeners for cancer. I also knew that women with fresh nack-nackers were cautious about having them and entered the Squish parlors with much trepidation.

      I stayed up half the night worrying about the procedure and its effects. It ended up being no big deal. I truly believe the cell-phone conversation I endured in the office was much more painful than the actual procedure was. There I sat, about to enjoy my first four-tittied mammogram when some stupid jingle (“Roll Out the Barrel”)—fitting