When I was in my early twenties, I was a black hole of unhappy, and my poor body bore the brunt of it. It’s always been easier to look for external methods to tend to emotional turmoil I can’t seem to snuff. Thank you, MTV, Vogue, and Victoria’s Secret, for reaffirming all the things I hated about myself because, Eureka! Heidi Klum and I both knew what would mend my inner-cracks! Every little pimple of insecurity zapped away, magic! The solution was, wait for it…. a breast reduction. Yeahhhhh!! Chop those puppies right off and hike whatever’s left up to my chin until I’m a kinda-floorboard walking the runways in Europe (I’d settle for walking Des Moines).
I’m on the stumpy side, a whole 5’1, and though I’m small in stature, I compensate in boob size. Some of you may think I’m a loon, after all, who doesn’t want a big rack? Men lap those up, ample hooters are porn star material, you know the drill. But through my lens, they just got in the way. The melons were floppy and sweaty when I rode horses and exercised, even when I struggled to tame them by layering a bra under a sports bra. More importantly, big jugs attracted male attention, and with my low self-esteem shrouding me, I needed those appendages cut off and gone, so I could melt away. Think pancake-flat, a negative A.
After mulling it over, I plunged right into the miracle worker, AKA the phone book (yep those existed), leafed through and thoughtfully selected the surgeon who had the fanciest ad. I mustered up the courage to schedule an appointment even with the recognition that a credentialed but random man would poke and prod at my bare chest. It wasn’t the image of bloody post-surgery wounds that made me squeamish, it was getting naked from the top up in front of this guy.
The office was tranquil and ritzy with Kenny G wafting through the air and a gurgly fountain. I was a bundle of nerves in the waiting room but propelled forward by the dream of my teeny weeny boobs. The nurse called my name, and I stifled the impulse to sprint out of the classy oak door. I was committed to the boob deflating mission.
The nurse led me to the overly air-conditioned pink room. “Open to the front,” she said as she handed me a gown, and I nearly keeled over like a top-heavy tomato plant but followed her instructions instead. Then the doctor came in- all pomp and polish. He opened the gown and peered in at my lopsided gigunda bosom. He yanked a black marker out of his shirt pocket, gasp. Then proceeded to edit me.
“We will make an incision here, lift them, shrink them, move the nipple,” he said casually. You should know, he added, “You might not be able to breastfeed if you have children.” None of that seemed like a big thing. “With your body type though, you would look unbalanced if you were anything less than a B/C (code for you are damn chubby).” My heart dropped into my Pumas. Who gave a crap about feeding some whimpering infant? I couldn’t be an A cup????? WAHHHHHHH. NOOOOOO.
Next, he took my face in his hands, but not in a gentle, fatherly way, more like a cha-ching kinda way: “While we’re at it, we could do a little work here.” He cradled my chin, then pinched some fat I hadn’t even known deserved obsessing over. I shied away and awkwardly halted the appointment before he could whip out the marker again.
Driving home, I cried the ugly cry. I cried because I had to carry around these breasts like overstuffed luggage, because the doctor thought I was fat and had confirmed what I already believed. But beneath all that, I felt violated. After the purge of tears, something new grew in me like a battle wound. The sadness bloomed into vibrant anger. Finally, my body wasn’t the target. Who did this SOB think he was to tell a girl she required chin lipo? Screw him and his fancy shmancy office. Screw teeny tits versus real woman boobs. I was keeping these knockers for good, and he could shove it.
Nearly twenty years later, I have admiration for my breasts. Though they aren’t perky peaches, they’ve effectively nourished three babies. These DDs are a part of me, and even though it’s hell finding a properly fitting bra, we are on good terms.
NEWSFLASH!
This weekend, for the first time EVER, I wore a bikini. Okay, it was because I forgot to bring my bathing suit on vacation, and the bikini was the cheapy option, but still, I did it! And yes, my boobs did leak out of the skimpy top, and I did my fair share of arm crossing, but I don’t think Keith minded one bit.
Image of melons from: https://www.verywell.com/cantaloupe-nutrition-facts-calories-and-health-benefits-4110083
