I had just ordered an iced coffee when a blonde lightning rod bolted her way into Dunkin Donuts. Immediately, heads turned. Men, whose eyes were buried not so long ago in the Wall Street Journal, quickly wiped powdered sugar off their chin as they tucked in their boston cream filled bellies. I didn't realize what all the fuss was about. It's not like she was the first blonde to ever grace DD. But then I looked a little closer and realized she was not just a pretty blonde in DD but she had DDs herself. I immediately glared down at my own pair. It was obvious. Next to her I looked like an IHOP pancake. I took my coffee and ran for the door.

Later that evening, still feeling bummed about my bosoms, I turned on the television to take my mind off the matter. My remote just happened to stop at Vh1, a channel I seldom watch because Celine Dion videos are heavily rotated. On the screen before me was an unconscious 20 something year old bleeding profusely. For a second I thought I had accidentally turned on TLC's Life in the ER and caught doctors desperately trying to mend a gunshot wound. Boy was I wrong.

I was watching, of all things, a breast augmentation, or at least, I tried to watch one. I cringed and put my hand before my eyes. "How could anyone volunteer to do this to themselves?" I wondered. Horrified by the bloodshed I flipped over to MTV and caught the tale end of a Shakira video in which she had shaken her groove thing barefooted atop a cliff. Her shimmies reeked of the kind of sensuality Britney could only dream of having. This girl was the real deal. AND she had average sized breasts. I was feeling relieved, as if there was still hope for those of us under a 34 DD.

I turned back to Vh1 to see the young woman's transformation. The girl, whom I had originally thought suffered from a tragic bullet wound, stood in a sparkled halter-top, braless before a mirror. She was getting ready to make her grand entrance as a D cup diva. That night, at the club, she proudly let her friends fondle her new... well... friends. Compliment after compliment I began to acknowledge the fact that she looked great. I was once again sucked into the booby trap.

I began to ponder the situation. This perfectly healthy girl subjected herself to invasive surgery to make men drool and women, like me, sulk. No matter which way you looked at it, it didn't seem like the most rational decision. But I don't fully put the blame on her. The media is constantly feeding people messages on how they should look. These messages are so pervasive; you cannot turn on the television, watch a movie or read a magazine without the "ideal" female body being shoved in your face. Plastic surgeons, beauty magazines, and make- up companies alike prey on women's insecurities leading them to believe that if they looked a certain way then they would be happier.

I wondered if this girl was any happier after her surgery. She appeared elated but was she any different four months after? Did her life improve? Did she find love? Is she anxiety free? I thought about it and realized that I would never know the answers to these questions. I would never know if this girl lived "happily ever after" thanks to saline implants. I suspect the answer to all the above questions is no, but then again, that could just be my jealousy talking.