My daughter and I were listening to her favorite radio station in the car while on our way to the mall. A station ad came on announcing 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 twenty-three 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 reasoning 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 30 by 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 eighty-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!”
By now, my daughter had shut me down. There was going to be no logical conversation, so I pulled out the big guns.
“Remember the contract.” I made her sign this contract promising no body art or multiple piercings when she was in high school. I think breast augmentation might be considered body art. It’s a long shot, but why not?
“Please, Mother, I am an adult now, so that contract is null and void. Plus, it was made under duress.”
I see my four years of college tuition did go to some use.
“What about Nick? Wouldn’t your boyfriend be upset?”
“Wait, I’ll text him.”
A few seconds passed and then her phone buzzed. The message that came back was “Wow, are you doing it?”
Damn kid. And I like him too. Rats! So, I took one final approach.
“Okay, you are now in a conservative job. Do you think the CEO of your company will want to see his newest hire participate in this contest? Plus no one is going to give you time off for the recuperation period. Okay, and this involves anesthesia and I’m guessing stitches—lots and lots of 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 twenty 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 fifty-five-and-over community? How many years in advance do I have to book that reservation? Will I start to get AARP advertisements? Should I give up running and, instead, do aquacises at the gym with the nice old ladies? I have to admit that I got to know them when I would swim, and they are sweet, and they always want to treat me to muffins at Panera Bread after the pool. Anyway, this car ride 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, C.C. 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.”
