Last August, I went to see a plastic surgeon about breast augmentation. I’d thought about it for a long time—years--but always talked myself out of it. As much as I tried to convince me of the value of self-acceptance, aging gracefully, and beauty-on-the-inside, I still couldn’t pass a mirror without pushing my girls up into their pre-baby position and telling them, "Stay!" Four times they’d made the trip from B to DD (and E while nursing!) and back. Now I couldn’t sell them for scrap. I didn’t want bigger. (I was once a platinum blonde and couldn’t even handle the kind of male attention that garnered.) I just wanted the perk back. During a particularly vile bout of depression, then, I called and made the appointment.
Between the time I dialed the phone and the time I entered his office, I enjoyed a variety of fantasies. I relived that moment on the beach when I was bent over on my knees, building a sand castle with Lo, and my Walmart swimsuit strap snapped. Only, in this little daydream, instead of scrambling to cover up and worrying about who might have been traumatized by my disfigurement, I shrugged my shoulders at all witnesses and grinned a sly acknowledgement of their good luck. I imagined the hoards of beads I’d catch at Mardi Gras. I couldn’t wait to have sex with the lights on again.
At the doctor’s, I was kept in the waiting room for an hour and a half. Evidently, someone was having a ta-ta emergency. I occupied myself by reading the wide array of literature that covered every surface of the room—brochures on Botox and collagen creams, for instance, and a magazine called New Beauty. In 90 minutes, I learned I might need some things I wasn’t even aware of—a knee lift for instance, and labiaplasty. I wished they had a hand mirror in the ladies room.
The surgeon himself looked like a shorter Noah Wiley. Bonus. I hoped we’d have a mini courtship period, that he’d get to know me before he got under my shirt, and that he’d murmur sweet nothings like, “They’re pretty nice, really” and “I can’t believe you’ve been pregnant four times.” What he actually said was that I was an ideal candidate for silicone, which still hasn’t been approved for the general population but can be used in cases of defects or deformity—one breast being markedly smaller than the other, say. The cost for the procedure would be around $6000.
I’ve never been to Europe, people.
So yeah, sometimes ignorance IS bliss.
7 comments:
I simply cannot imagine you with giant tits. Glad you decided against it.
You know, I heard Carnie Wilson of Wilson Philips say she got a labiaplasty after she lost all the weight and for about six weeks she kept wiping her ass instead of her vadge after peeing. That story alone should put you off any other plastic surgery ideas.
Everybody now "....hold on for one more day..."
Good choice, Tania...take the cash and run to Europe as fast as you can...do you honestly think on your death bed, you will look back and say, DAMMIT, my life would've been SO MUCH BETTER if those damn boobs of mine had been more perfect? ....doubt it. And this comes from someone who knows all about small breasts and body image issues.
oh, and I hear that maggot milkshakes make your boobs grow and lift.
if there is any chance you would have looked like the girl in this picture, i'm glad you didn't do it. i'm pretty much the most deformed kid on the face of the earth, but i've learned to get by. let me know when you want to take that trip to europe.
Tania, can't you just charge it? I mean, them?
Collin, that's hilarious. I have to say that I've never heard of labiaplasty, that's insane.
I could talk about breasts all day. They are wonderfual, all shapes and sizes. Of course, I could just be over dramatic about them because they've been 'off limits' for 11 months now...and counting...
Jason you poor thing. Talk to Doug. He knows exactly how you feel.
Post a Comment