I think I'm a...man?

Recently, I found myself sitting in a Plastic Surgeon's office. Now, I know what you're thinking...but it's not like that. I found myself discussing the most bizarre of topics: boobs. [in case you were not aware, soon I will be the long-awaited recipient of a reduction]

"What size would you like to be?"
[sliding a book of real photos across the table to me]
"This size? Or this one here look appealing?"
I look around the room for a moment and think - how ludacrous, I'm about to order my new bosoms from a catalog. Completely surreal. "I'll take hers...they're perkier." Who says that? Ok, well - who says that out-loud to someone other than their girlfriend while strolling through the mall?

We continue on, and he asks me about my knowledge about gram equivalents. I'm sitting perplexed when one of the greatest and most awkward experiences of my adult life transpires. He rummages around in his drawer and hands me...Oh, you guessed it: A 500 gram implant! [SIDEBAR: for those yet unaware, don't bother googling. It is a 1.1 lb. 2 cup size boosting clear blob of jello.]

Immediately, and to my shock I am spellbound. I am appalled that I am so enraptured. He's talking. He sounds like Ms. Donovan (Charlie Brown's teacher for those of you who didn't grow up in the '80s). The room blurs slightly, and all I can see is this "fun bag" of wonderment in my hands. I squeeze it. I jiggle it. I pinch it. I twist, turn, bounce and smoosh it. At this point, I've darted into the make believe world of my happy place. This thing is incredibly like a water snake. I can't stop myself.

I push the wobbly mass away and snap back to reality long enough to notice: he's still talking, and I have no idea what he's going to do to me when I go under...[once more off to my happy place, imagining my surgeon with Julia Childs' voice] "And here we have the breast. And we will take and cut it, and place it neatly onto the platter, taking care to be sure that presentation is not sacrificed." Jesus.

I look back to my right. There it is, beckoning to me. I lean over and smack it. I bounce my hand on it. In my head, I've even named the thing...Lois. Oh yes. Precisely that moment, I look up and realize that I'm a man. I'm fascinated with the damned thing. I'm going to need a support group. I need intervention. He's going to have to wrestle it out of my hands when I leave the office if he thinks he's getting it back. Now, I imagine this altercation.

I walked out of my appointment with no clue what I was going to do...except obsess for the next few hours about boobs. I might have it even worse than I thought...I can't be a man...I'm a pubescent boy. Help.