My adoring public makes itself heard

First, from alert reader Missy, a rather startling development, as here she is recounting her conversation with her husband:

Me: I wanna get boobs like TASHA!!
Mr. Man: Who is TASHA!!

geez...

I, well, I’m almost struck speechless by this. Does the man perchance live in a cave?? “Who is Tasha”??? What’s next – who is that Obama dude anyway? Who’s Cher? Who’s Dolly, or MarisaTomei? You know, all stars for whom one name is generally sufficient. I’m weeping right alongside you, Missy......

Then of course there have been all the requests here and on Facebook as my elevens (dare we now say twelves?) of readers clamor for actual pictures of the new boobages. Though it’s telling that all of said clamoring is from men. Now then. I would looove to post pics of the new girls, truly, I would. Just to prove that a) I’m not taking Vicodin on a regular basis because I’m your regular garden-variety junkie (to be clear, I’m a recovering-from-surgery junkie, hmph!) , and b) I’m not some 55-year-old guy living in his mom’s basement and looking for random pics of boobs to post, under the guise of the whole cancer/surgery thing. We just won’t even touch the scary issue that is “man boobs” – I’d like to hang onto the readers I do have.

Anyway, back to pictures. I have the feeling that folks in ReaderLand are perhaps being influenced by the warp in the time-space continuum that takes place in TVLand. Where people have surgery one day, and the very next day, they’re up and about, running that 10K. Which, mind you, would normally NOT be a problem for a triathlon goddess such as myself, no sirree! Except for two things, one of which is that I didn’t have the normal boob job, where they just tuck an implant in, but rather the lat flap, where they take a big chunk of muscle and skin from one place (my back) and move it elsewhere (boobages). AND they also left these drains in, of which 2 are still there, meaning, well, let’s just say that anyone who’s wanted to see said drains has invariable responded with an “eww” when I’ve tugged them out for show-and-tell. So that’s what you’d be getting pictures of, drains and stitches and bruising, rather than the super-fine perky boobs yet to come.

So I can only ask for your patience at this time, my dear twelves of readers. Patience. The boobages will have many moments of glory in the years to come, but they will not – should not – be rushed before their time.