"Hi, I'm Ashley," the bikini clad waitress says to me. "I'll be your cabana host today, but you are fine to order from any of the girls. Can I start you off with anything?"

"Yes", I say. "I'll have the skinny margarita and what size breasts do you have?"

Okay, maybe I only asked for the margarita. But now that cancer has determined I need to "upgrade my chassis," I find that I am like a teenage boy crossing over into hardcore puberty,.

I am literally checking out every woman's breasts I see. 

And considering we are in Vegas for my brother and husbands' birthdays, there is an endless amount of boobage on display. 

It has become almost a game between my husband and I. 

"Collin, seven o'clock? " I say.

"Too much like they've been bolted on."

"Steph, corner of the pool?" 

"SOOO Fake , I'm going for an upgrade not a complete porn star overhaul."

The good thing about expanders , which is what I have in the places where the implants will eventually go, is that Dr D will gradually fill them. When they get to be the size I'm jiving with, then we stop. It's a hella better way than blindly guessing. 

Meanwhile, the window-shopping will continue. There aren't a lot of upsides to this cancer stuff, this may be the only one.