News flash: men like boobs!

Last year it was while I was in my ramping up phase of training for Ironman Wisconsin – in other words, the few weeks before – that I crashed my bike and wound up with half a brain and a broken collarbone. And as we all know, NAS or WTC or whoever the hell is in charge of Ironman races now, they do NOT do rollovers. Never, no how. They have no way of handling that kind of tricky maneuver in their system, I’m sure, so don’t even think about it. No rollovers for you! They don’t do them.

Oh wait, except when they do:

(from BeginnerTriathlete.com)

“I was very fortunate. I signed up for CDA 08 via a Community Fund slot... then 10 days before the race I broke my collarbone. I called NA Sports and left tearful messages where I begged to get my registration moved... I think started randomly sending emails... my coach new a lady that worked at NA Sports and I totally guessed at her email... and turns out I guessed correctly... anyhow, they were nice enough to let me move my registration to WI 08.”


I guess in spite of The Cancer AND the broken collarbone/brain injury, I should have just focused on whining enough. Who knew?

Anyway – that was why for this year’s IMWI, I was on the sidelines, volunteering where the tri club usually does, at the Cross Plains aid station on the bike course. I had organized our troops, and I have to say we did a pretty damn fine job of going with the Las Vegas theme, costumes and all. My one tactical error was in the costume I chose, namely Liberace rather than a showgirl. Needless to say, for all the hours I was out there, it was like I was invisible, in spite of looking like I had narrowly escaped an explosion at a clown factory. That simply paled in comparison to Caroline, who, god bless her little boob-displaying soul, was working the cleavage in a dress that left little to the imagination, and in fact had more cleavage bursting forth for the second loop of the bike.

Now, I had no problem with this AT ALL, no sirree. I was MORE than happy spending weeks hunting down decorations, picking up supplies, then decorating, lugging things around, toting around a big pink bunny head, posting signs, making sure our volunteers were taken care of, and oh yeah, cheering for the racers for hours on end while dying of heat in a wool jacket with fringe. No problem!

What got me was later on, when Caroline, Lynn and I were walking around downtown, to various spots on the run course. I was still in my costume, while Caroline had changed into jeans and was just wearing her showgirl headdress. Headdress, clown outfit, headdress, clown outfit. And WHO was noticed and thanked profusely ALL FRICKING EVENING LONG for their “hard work” out at Cross Plains? Umm yeah, let’s just say it wasn’t me, even though eventually I believe (it’s all kind of fuzzy now) I started jumping up and down and yelling at people something along the lines of “Are you BLIND? Hello?! I’m wearing red-white-and-blue argyle socks, for god’s sake, and still lugging around this huge cutout of Liberace, and all you notice are some freaking feathers??” This was before Liberace was tucked in for the night.

So yeah, totally fine with it. Right. But all this talk of boobs brings me to my main point, which is that I finally met with my plastic surgeon last week, he who’ll be doing the Rackotomy. And the verdict is.......