if you’re looking for a 36c, you’re not gonna find it here.

i asked david if he has to choose between the type of surgery i would undergo (hypothetically if i would have one), would he prefer i do something with my: (1) nose, (2) breast, (3) legs?

hypothetically, if i would be deranged enough to get a surgery, i wouldn’t have to ask his preference.  i would say deranged because it would take a large lump of insanity to ever end up deciding for a surgery; i am just not that sort of girl (no offense to the 36c-surgically endowed ladies; i, too, cannot help but stare at ur boobs).

it always take a long time to get david to ever answer a hypothetical question.  especially questions like this.  i guess at the back of his mind, history and current events tell him hypothetical questions like that one is a trap set up by females to assess their boyfriend’s satisfaction with them or of their relationship.  “hypothetically, david.” i urged.

“what the hell would you want surgery on ur legs for?”

“a couple of inches more.”

“a what?”

“add a couple of inches more to it.  it would be nice being long-legged.”

“that’s crazy.”

“it can be done”

“that’s barbaric. horrific.”

“its just the same as slicing one’s boobs and putting some jelly inside it.” i told him, giggling.

“you’re not having that, either.”

“its just a hypothetical question!”

he shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. 

i wasn’t always this short.  in early years in grade school, i was one of the few girls who were at the end of the line.  but as the guys in our after-school playgroup started insisting more and more that they run after us instead of us running after them, i started finding myself nearer and nearer to the front.  (it didn’t take a genius to realize that all they wanted was to run after my bestfriend jane to catch her first; i never had problems with it because i hated getting caught and the boys always stink after school). 

and while my classmates wore training bras and full-pledged bras in high school, i was wearing sandos.  they were fun, they dont give u difficulty breathing, and they kept that pimple-infected, shower-deprived school mate of yours from staring offensively at your chest while eating iced candy.  but after a while, u do wonder sometimes.

i always wanted a pert nose, however. it was of necessity as well as desire.  the eyeglasses would hold on much better if i was gifted with something not like it was frustratingly trying to cover half of my entire face.  and desire because everybody seem to like it; i was young and western influence was strong. 

but i grew older. and smarter.  it isn’t true that confidence can only be built until adolescent years.  i was already cocky then, but that is not confidence.  cockiness is pride without satisfaction. confidence came much later in my life.  and it was until then that i realized that beauty comes from within; for one to understand why some people find them beautiful and some do not, one has to see one’s beauty first.  knowledge paves way to understanding.  

so when my weekend divemaster, a 55-year old english bloke, was joking his man boobs are larger than mine in a boat full of men, i didnt flinched.

it was true. his were larger, and they sagged.

i caught derek, a younger english guy, looking apologetically embarrassed.  i winked nonchalantly at him and smiled.  he spoke above whisper, “sometimes, the blokes in us produce a strange kind of english humour.”

we laughed it off.

and then, steve (that is the old bloke’s name) surprised me with five terrific shells after the dive.  “to the funniest girl i dove with.”

“you haven’t dive with a girl for a long, long time, steve.  and i do not have extra money to give you a tip.” i told him.

“you can do night dives with me.” he said, in his fading british accent and made some jerky, silly movements.

oh, well.  some men are just blokes to some girls, flat-chested or not.


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