It is a well-known fact that I am a klutz. And even though I haven't gotten around to posting about my most recent adventures in surgery land, it is also a well-known fact that I have a fairly useless left arm. I'm sure you can guess where this is going.

Two days ago I decided to make myself a nice cup of tea at work. I merrily skipped over to the microkitchen and stretched as far as I could to get down a paper hot cup. I squeezed in a generous dollop of honey from the bear-shaped dispenser, plopped in the tea bag, and centered the cup under the instant hot beverage machine. Hot water, large, and start! Hmmm, there seems to be distinct lack of fullness in my cup. Hot water, small, and start! One perfectly filled cup of searingly hot liquid. I'll just pick this up and SPLURSH EVERYWHERE!

Somehow my left had escaped unscathed, while my innocent right hand was delicately charred. A combination of cold water and ice saved me from years of skin grafts, but nothing could hide the sticky, hot mess covering everything. I manned up, found a janitor, and apologized profusely.

Well, that was thoroughly embarrassing. Not willing to let such a challenge go unanswered, I managed to one up myself today.

The first Friday of every month is brunch day. Some people complain about not having two distinct giant buffets from which to get their meals, but I love having waffles for lunch.

I very carefully used my right hand to hold a cup underneath the batter dispenser so as not to risk a second failure of strength. With my emaciated left hand, I started to push on the nozzle. WOOOOSSSHHHH! THE ENTIRE NOZZLE FELL OFF!

The batter instantly overwhelmed my tiny, one serving cup.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME! THE WAFFLES ARE ESCAPING!"

Well, that got everybody's attention. A nearby coworker grabbed two large bowls and sprinted to the rescue. In the five seconds it took to fill both bowls, two members of the kitchen staff arrived on the scene with the proper tools to curtail the flood. But first they had to finish laughing at me.
One of them knew the secrets of the batter dispenser and removed the tank, but, alas, it was already empty.

Ten minutes later I was mostly debattered and order had been restored to the waffle station. I gingerly tempted fate by daring to try again. If ever I earned a waffle, that was it. And it was delicious.

That is how creating an epic mess became known as pulling a <me>.

After nearly a year with the horrible expander, I was actually looking forward to having it replaced with a nice, comfy silicone-gel implant. Just the thought of being able to sleep on my stomach made me giddy. Not giddy enough to merrily skip into the operating room, but enough to ward off most of my normal pre-surgery fears.*

As the operation date loomed near, I had the standard rounds of doctor appointments. What was not so standard was being handed a binder full of Playboy models and being told to pick out my ideal breast shape. I was even given post-its to note particularly good features. Having never been a teenage boy, I never realized that there are so many different considerations.

While I carefully compared 1959 boobs to 2006 boobs, Matt very carefully ignored me in favor of his phone. "What do you think of these?" "Umm..." "Do you think these are too big?" "Err..." "JUST GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME LOOK AT BOOBS!"

Ultimately, I gave Miss December 1963 best overall, though a few 1970s centerfolds made very good showings. Matt agreed.

With that out of the way, what size would I like? Honestly, I never had any real desire for bigger boobs. Alas, it would be impossible to make them reasonably symmetrical without increasing the right side at least a bit. Considering how highly I value symmetry, I decided that a slight increase was something I could live with.

A weighty matter hangs in the balance.

Dr. PlasticSurgeon explained that she wouldn't know exactly how much of an increase I would receive until she took out the expander. If I was lucky, the right side would only have a vertical scar extending downward from the areola. By pinching the skin underneath, the top would be perkier and a closer match to the entirely fake boob on the other side. If I wasn't lucky, I'd wake up with a lollipop scar, with the top part encircling the areola. Admittedly, when I stopped giggling, I was okay with either option.

I asked the doctor if I could have the expander after removal. I had grand plans involving a rifle and YouTube. She understood the sentiment, but deemed the lab techs to have a higher priority. I suppose being slowly dissected for biopsy is a crueler fate than instant destruction, so I acquiesced.

With all of the formalities taken care of, I managed to maintain my eager anticipation until the day prior to surgery. The real miracle, however, was that I didn't change my mind about my choice of new boobs.

*It's really not a good thing that I have a well-established baseline for "normal" surgery apprehension.