Breast reduction surgery gives a writer a new outlook on love, but the results are not immediate.
As a kid, my ballet teacher nicknamed me Olive Oil because I was tall and skinny with long dark hair like the cartoon. By 14, puberty had left me squeezing into 32DD bras. My instant curves disgusted me. "You are not fat; you’re Zaftik," my mother would say in Yiddish, as she inspected my 5'7" and 120-lb. frame. She meant I carried my weight well. Large busts were so common among Jewish women they'd created a word in the Old Country for exactly what I'd inherited.
When one expects life à la "Sex and the City" and finds monogamy instead.
As a modern working girl, I feared dependency on a man. I assumed my romantic affairs would verge on pathetic before the perfect match showed up to accept my neurotic tendencies. I'd also learned from my screen heroes, who all dated for sport, that I'd be searching until at least the next decade to find Mr. Big. Even after I'd met Zach I refused to turn into Charlotte. Her goody two-shoes ways and lack of career ambition aggravated me, but I was no longer Samantha with a different guy every night. And that was OK. Just like the women in the upcoming Sex and the City movie, who developed throughout the six seasons we watched them, I had to balance my love of independence with my need for monogamy.
