Two very prominent reasons, in fact.

So, last spring, I started tossing around the idea of getting a boob job.

I consulted with my friends, family, husband and colleagues. I debated the issue with surgically enhanced feminists and flat-chested soccer moms.

But the two most important opinions were those of my 10- and 14-year-old daughters. Sure, it was my life and my decision, but they were at that impressionable age and I didn't want to give them the wrong impression.

I've always told my daughters that real feminism means the freedom to make your own choices. But I've also always been a Barbie-basher, and I am known for my fierce lectures during which I rip up fashion magazines, rant against Madison Avenue and preach the joy of accepting one's body just the way it is.

What to do? Can you be a good mother and a hypocrite at the same time?

Surgically enhanced mothers of young daughters tell me they struggled with the same issues but went ahead and had the procedure done anyway. Martyr mothers, my least favorite category of moms, said it would ruin my daughters for life and cause them to suffer from anorexia, low self-esteem and promiscuity.

Sigh. Surely I could wrest a decision from somewhere in the middle?

Why did I want big boobs, anyway? Was it a midlife crisis? I don't think so. I've been married to the same guy for 18 years and we have hot, frequent, innovative sex. Being a smart guy (as well as politic), he declared membership in the good-legs, tight-butt club years ago, assuring me that big, bouncy breasts were somewhat distasteful to him. His prepared statement on the boob question: "Do whatever you want to do. I'm behind any decision you make."

But then, on Valentine's Day, he casually dropped a bonus check into a card. "New boobs. Get them if you want them," he said.

I leapt out of bed, eyes blazing. "You want me to get them, don't you? I knew it!"

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