Girls Just Wanna Have Funbags
I just posted the question I answered for my Advice Goddess column from a girl who's considering implants. Thanks to all who weighed in on my blog about their feelings on bought breasts. An excerpt:

It's understandable, after weight training and Weight Watcher-ing yourself down to where you can wear a bikini instead of using it for an eye shield, that you'd like to fill it with "nice boobs." According to hundreds of comments from men on my blog and elsewhere, those are probably the ones you have, even if they are on the small side. The consensus? Bought breasts tend to feel hard and unnatural, and (eeuw!) a bit cold to the touch. Sure, some guys love big honkers so much, they don't mind if they're fake. And, even guys who don't like fake'uns will tell you they can look pretty boobtacular in a sweater. But, when they're naked or peeking out from triangles of Lycra, they tend to look freaky and make guys wonder what's wrong with you that you felt compelled to hire somebody to slit you open and insert sandwich baggies of salt water or silicone.

How much time, exactly, do you spend in a bikini? Got a day job traveling to convention centers and sitting on top of cars? Is your workstation a greased pole? Keep in mind that all surgery has risks. Just ask the Argentinean model who went under the knife to get a little extra junk in the trunk. Oh, sorry -- you can't because, in the words of her friend Robert Piazza, she's a woman who "had everything" but "lost her life to have a slightly firmer behind."

You're unlikely to die getting a little more junk in the top bunk, but you may suffer complications like a buildup of scar tissue, which can cause painful tissue contraction and -- whoops! -- deformed breasts. Mmmm, sexy! And then, like toupees and car tires, implants eventually need to be replaced. Maybe every 10 years; maybe more often if you're one of the lucky ones who springs a leak. (Are we having funbags yet?)

Given the potential costs of breast augmentation, you might first try bra augmentation. Maybe even see a breast psychic. Okay, there's no such thing, but the little old Eastern European ladies at bra specialty stores come close. You can walk in bundled up like Nanook of the North, and Ludmilla will march over, bark your size at you (the size you really wear, not the size you think you wear), and strap and cup you until you almost believe somebody at the gym turned in what you lost on the treadmill.

Comments are live where the full column is posted.