Monday, November 2, 2009


I worry that someday you might choose breast reduction surgery

Now every girl out there has body insecurities and could probably tell you within five seconds exactly what she would like to change about herself. For most girls, the first answer would probably be weight. Having been fortunate enough to inherit a ridiculously high metabolism from my father, my main area of insecurity is probably the second most popular answer, boobs.

Having been a late bloomer, I didn't develop ANY breasts whatsoever until I was about 17, and even then I was still an A cup. This meant, of course, that I spent years stuffing my bra and then once I was old enough to, doing the more sophisticated version of bra-stuffing, working the Victoria's Secret ultra-padded bras.

(This, of course, led to an embarrassing encounter where I let a guy get to second base with me in the tenth grade and he emerged, confused, with a fistful of tissue paper. After that, I switched to socks.)

Once I was old enough and sick of buying water bras, I contemplated getting a boob job for a while. I even went so far as to get a plastic surgeon reference from my doctor. However, I eventually chickened out because the idea of having voluntary surgery to put something alien into my body was too terrifying for me to reconcile.

Plus, given my luck, I was pretty sure I'd be one of those rare people who had a deathly allergy to silicon. Or one of the implants would pop, and I would have to be rushed to the hospital at the most inconvenient and mortifying time ever, like in the middle of a massive family function. I can almost picture my father's face while his daughter is strapped to the gurney, clutching at her left boob and screaming obscenities...

Plus I really couldn't justify the financial costs. Do you know how many pairs of shoes I could buy with a couple grand? And not only that, I would have had to replace half my wardrobe since there was no way my extra small clothing would accomodate double D's. Seriously, who has that kind of time and money?

So, eventually, I just came to terms with the fact that I would never be considered busty by any means, and embraced the positive aspects of being breastily challenged. It meant that I never had to wear a bra, and I could pull off low-cut and backless styles without looking like a tramp. And that I never had to worry about a guy staring at my chest while talking to me. And I was happy with everything else, so who cared if I had the body of a 12-year old boy, right?

Then, miraculously, about a year ago, for no reason whatsoever, my boobs started to grow and I went up to a C cup. It was obviously noticeable, so I joked with my friends and family that I was a very, VERY late bloomer. Apparently 25 years old was the lucky year I finally hit puberty. It was pretty exciting, and don't worry, my girlfriend R already ran through with me the other changes that might be occurring now that I am a woman.

Other than the awkward conversation where my mom told me my boobs looked bigger and asking me if I had put on weight, the most memorable incident occurred when my friend told me that Goldsomething had asked her if I had gotten a boob job. I confronted him about it and he confirmed it, telling me that "they look really good."

Instead of the natural reaction of being offended, I told him it was the nicest compliment I had ever gotten. And you know what? It was. Totally wrote it down in my journal that night: Dear Diary, Tonight someone thought my boobies were fake! It was the best night ever!

This isn't to say that old insecurities never surface. My breastier friends still joke around that I'm the one with no boobs, but I can laugh along now, instead of wanting to run to the plastic surgeon ASAP.

One night, my guy friend T found out that our other friend had gotten a breast reduction because she had been having back problems. Immediately T went nuts on her and said (to quoth Superbad) that she had slapped God across the face by making her breasts smaller and that he was ridiculously disappointed in her.

To emphasize his point he ranted, "Look at S! She has no boobs! Do you know how much she would kill for boobs? When I become a doctor, I'm going to forgo any fees and give her a boob job because she needs it that badly! And you go around spitting in her face by making yours smaller?!?!"

Instead of running to the bathroom to cry in a stall, as I probably would have ten years ago, I laughed about it. And if you think this is not a big deal, imagine telling a girl that is insecure about her weight that she is fat and anticipate her reaction. Or asking a guy with a small penis why it's so little and does it get any larger (not that I've ever done that). That's right: it was pretty momentous of an occasion.

Am I still jealous of my friends with large boobs? Yes. If T really does offer me free breast augmentation surgery, will I at least consider it? Absolutely. But am I happy for the most part? Count on it.

No comments: