The Boob Job I Never Got
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.