Chapter 50, 36 C At 40 Instead Of Orange Dress

After Elliot, I snuggled back with husband, spent more time  in the office but by 1990, three years after Elliot, on turning forty, I rebelled against being a middle aged woman.

The children in college no longer needed my cinnamon rolls. I was their past tense mother, the mom who raised them. Now we were all "adults", my position the one who took care of holidays and paid household bills.

At the office I could be replaced by a book keeper. My business card title, "Office Manager" was a misnomer for social secretary. I didn't have a real job and finding one outside of the office made no sense for what the business generated. I was simply an appendage, not necessary for anything. While trying to accompany my husband on business trips with his frequent flyer miles I often was left home, alone.

He had his mistress, the business. Who was I, simply the provider of domestic tranquility? Financially well off, I became a Nordstrom's and Sak's Fifth Avenue attired ornament who spent half a day once a week at a salon, maintained shoulder length hair, bathed in a bubble bath, used exotic lotions to keep a supple skin and layered it with expensive French lingerie. I drove a SL500 cream colored hardtop Mercedes with vanity license plate, in short, stereotype rich bitch ornament, a title which didn’t annoy me.

It kept me from seeing myself as past tense but wasn’t enough to avoid mid-life crisis; I needed something dramatic, a statement greater than wearing an orange dress.

After wishing for larger breasts since Erica I decided the ornament needed a boob job. They went from 34 B to 36 C on a summer afternoon in a plastic surgeon's office with periareolar saline implants, not to  big boob bimbo, just a notch up, so I told myself. Once the soreness receded I put on heels and stood naked before my full length mirror and admired my new shape. Maybe I was a boob girl, they looked great.

They needed to be shown off, a test drive, if only Erica could see them. Shopping, I tried different outfits to see how to enhance them, selected bras which promoted them and developed other attire accents which made my presence known. I selected a perfume few wore to announce my presence by smell, wore heels which drew attention by their walking tap, decorated like a Christmas tree with expensive jewelry and used TV news anchorwomen as role dress models. It was a full 40 year old life crisis.

The attention my upscale appearance garnered ensured I was not a past tense woman. I wanted men to notice my eyes, hair, neck nape, legs, clothes and breasts, walking by, entering a building, getting in or out of a car, I wanted to be noticed, the opposite when young. I smiled thinking about my Pee Che folder hiding once upon a time. Now I was the crudely referred to, attention whore. It was fun to flirt as a forty year old woman but only if men flirted back. I made sure they did.

With enhancement, I was top heavy. Like a teenager rapidly growing my enhanced outline bumped into little things. With their soreness eased, hubby having his playtime with them, my enhanced profile incorporated in my movements, it was time to see what they could accomplish.                                

While originally blaming my husband's swinging idea for my unfaithfulness, with Elliot I realized I was promiscuous and stopped blaming hubby for who I was. I was addicted to affairs, their excitement, and self-esteem assurance. They were a craved drug stimulant which controlled me. Even while with Elliot I fantasized milking three men.

When it ended I knew it was partly because it was time for his replacement.