The Boob Job

Sometimes I worry that I don’t know how to die. I mean, I’ve never done it before (that I remember) – how will I know what to do? It would be kind of awkward to think right, this is my last breath, then take another. And another. How do you know which one is your last? And what about your thoughts, the eternal inner monologue – do you know when to stop thinking? Do you think right, time to go, this is it, or does it just cut off mid thought?

These are my thoughts as I lie waiting in the pre-surgery room. I am flat on my back staring at the ceiling. There is a canula in my hand and I am in a gown, ready to go, but I have been left all alone.

The surgeon has been and drawn on my boobs. Of course we have discussed desired size and shape before, but he wants to be sure (which is always a good trait in a surgeon).

My thoughts wander away from death and back through how I got here. I could never afford such a luxury, nor did I ever consider doing such a thing for myself.

Until I found the black notebook.

The notebook was in my husband’s laptop bag. I wasn’t looking for it – I had no idea about its existence, nor that its contents would change the course of my life forever. I was actually looking for our joint credit card for some mundane purchase, some household necessity that made up the framework of our comfortable life together. I’m not sure what made me think to look in the laptop bag (the credit card wasn’t there) but it meant I found myself rifling through the interior pockets of the bag.

It was such a cliché. The Little Black Book. In retrospect I’m almost disappointed that he was so unoriginal. I opened it up and the first thing that happened was that an envelope fell out of it. With nothing but curiosity, not even an ounce of a feeling of impending doom, I opened the envelope. There was money in there. A lot of money. Why would my husband have a large wad of cash inside a black notebook hidden from me?

In my innocence – oh how I cringe at my naivete, the last few moments of my not knowing – I wondered if he was planning a surprise for me. A present? A trip somewhere? Our anniversary was coming up, maybe he had actually remembered?

I counted the money. Twenty thousand dollars. This was going to be quite a trip, or present! Why though was it tucked inside a black notebook?

So then I opened the notebook properly. There were names inside, women’s names, and phone numbers. At first I thought maybe this was a relic from his past, something he had kept nostalgically, to look back on and remember his conquests before he settled down to marriage and settled for me.

But then I noticed dates next to places and names. Very recent dates. Very recent dates when he had told me he was on work trips.

I’d like to be able to say that it all became clear in that instant, but denial is a strong force (and I am a bit slow). What did this mean? Why was he meeting female workmates at bars and restaurants when he was away on business trips?

It dawned on me painfully slowly. They. Weren’t. Business. Trips.

They. Weren’t. Workmates.

Suddenly I felt all the blood rush to my head, my cheeks were burning and I felt a bit unsteady. My husband, the one to whom I had pledged my life, was having affairs. PLURAL.

I sat on the floor in the spare room and read the Little Black Book. It was all there, laid out in his neat writing – names, dates, places, expenses (a lot!). Clearly he paid for all his dalliances in cash but he couldn’t help himself, he kept track. And obviously he kept enough on hand for any future opportunities (not presents or holidays for his wife).

Once I had read it from front to back I placed the money back inside the envelope and put the envelope in the notebook. I was about to carefully replace it in the laptop bag when I had a thought. Why SHOULD I put $20,000 back into his hiding place? He couldn’t very well report it missing, could he?

So instead, I took the envelope back out and stuck it in my pocket. Then I put the empty notebook back into the bag, zipped the bag back up and continued looking for the missing credit card (I eventually found it under a piece of paper on the dining table, where I really should have thought to look in the first place).

Over the next few days I didn’t let on that I knew, or that I had the money. I played happy families, I made small talk, while I thought about how best to use it. A few times I caught him looking at me oddly but when I returned his look with an open, questioning face he looked unsettled and turned away. He didn’t know how to proceed, knowing that if he asked me about the money his whole game was over.

I, on the other hand, was just starting to see a whole world of possibilities suddenly open to me. He had always been tight with money, watching our spending, making me justify every expense. I couldn’t work out how he had squirreled away $20,000 without me noticing, I assume it had taken some time, but I sure wasn’t going to let this opportunity get away from me now.

I had always wanted bigger breasts, but despite his disappointment in my body, husband dearest would never have paid for their enlargement (clearly he had instead outsourced to find bigger boobs).

I booked in to see a surgeon. I took with me various pictures of women with the sort of breasts I wanted, and he said they were perfectly achievable. He took measurements and before photos, and promised me wonderful after photos.

And so I find myself here, getting bigger, better boobs, with my husband’s affair money.

And he will NEVER get to see or touch them.

Here comes the anaesthetist now, a nice lady whom I feel like telling my story to. I’m trying to think of a way of leading into it (‘’so, guess how I’m paying for these breasts?’’) but she is starting to inject the white liquid into my canula and-