Life, Augmented

a bit from my (coming soon) memoir…. .

I still remember admiring my bank teller’s breasts. I was in college and it was a time when you actually went into the bank and interacted with humans to do anything. She was very pretty (I admired that too)—but her breasts—those were the ones my A-cups dreamed of. The ones that I had finally given up hope for. I was a late bloomer in high school, but I stayed healthily optimistic about going up a cup size through my freshman year of college. The old joke about “still waiting to bloom” fit me perfectly. My bank teller, however, filled out her classic white button-up perfectly, and I ached for, now that I had seen them, those specific ones. She also had a mouth so perfectly done with lipstick that, even while she was doing other things, was in a bit of a smile—the opposite of my own affliction known as “resting bitch face.” It was as if she had been bred for customer service. I also now wonder if she took notice of my concealed gawking (which I’m guessing she was used to) and whether that was either offensive or entertaining. She didn’t let on. I was a practical mid-western girl, and I filed those breasts away with things I would never have. Now, this maybe-less-practical middle-aged woman has them! Getting them was easy. Thinking about getting them was harder. As a raised-to-be-practical mid-western over-thinking feminist, I had a few things to work through first.

I loved having breasts for the year that I nursed after each child. When nursing was over, I started to understand why women considered breast augmentation, but for a lot of reasons I decided it wasn’t for me. One of those times I thought about it I was actually contemplating a nose job, which had been a dream since I was in middle school and was teased for my unique “ski jump” nose. While on the website of a recommended surgeon, I meandered over to the breast augmentation portfolio. I marveled at the before and after photos—so many of the before photos were of misshapen, totally flat, and hugely asymmetric breasts. I closed that website feeling grateful for my own tiny, but perfectly shaped, breasts. My grossly inappropriate high school science teacher once told me that breasts that could fill a champagne glass were once considered ideal. A champagne GLASS, not flute. I was pretty sure I could still fill one of those, so I was feeling pleased. I got neither a nose nor a boob job.

Ten years later, and after many conversations about it with friends who had either done it or thought about doing it themselves, a real seed was planted. During those ten years, I had simply dismissed it as “something not for me.” Then my husband and I got into the lifestyle. It wasn’t because I wanted to be sexier as much as it was I, now having played with women, started appreciating breasts on a new level. So, when a friend’s girlfriend, who was contemplating getting a boob job, wondered if I had ever looked into it, it stirred something in me. She was an incredibly sexy and beautiful woman, and also a cohort of mine on the itty-bitty-titty committee. It was a three-second thought of, “Huh, if she’s considering it, maybe I should too,” that led me to actually doing it, even before she did.

Between the seed and the bloom, however, there was the small task of ideological reconciling to tackle. My questions were deep and wide and ranged from “Why aren’t my aged, A-cups considered sexy?” and “Why do we, as women, have SURGERY to preserve beauty while men do, comparatively, nothing?” to “Is this going to affect my fitness regimen?” and not least, “How will I tell my children?!” I turned to the two sources any girl turns to: her girlfriends and Google.

As for girlfriends, I spoke to those who had fake boobs, those who didn’t but had thought about it, those who wouldn’t do it, and those who had large breasts naturally. Two things I learned were that women love their large (as long as they are not painfully large) breasts. Also, women who have implants, LOVE them. Emphatically. I did not talk to a single friend or friend of a friend who regretted the surgery. I started to love the idea of it just talking to them. They were not an unbiased crowd, I knew, and wondered if they were validating their own choices. These were very sincere conversations, however, and I believed that they really were in love with their own breasts. It looks strange to write that, but it was true. They all mentioned feeling more like themselves again because most that I spoke to had surgery post-children. They felt good, or better, about themselves, which often translated to sexier. They were a convincing clan.

This, I had to temper with the 50,000+ women in the Facebook group I found that all suffered from Breast Implant Illness (BII)—a definite thing, though controversial and not officially recognized by the medical community. Like many risks, it was a tiny risk, but if it happened to you, then, it happened to you. Just like the risk of dying under anesthesia. Try explaining that one to the kids: your mom died because she wanted bigger boobs. Were these risks worth the “fun” of having nice boobs? Let’s be clear, that is what this decision distilled down to for me: having bigger boobs was about having fun. As I’ve aged, I’ve created a fun filter. I choose a lot of things just for that reason. Spontaneous dance parties while making dinner, actual dance clubs (even if I am the oldest), singing karaoke to show tunes in the middle of the day . . . you know. Fun. Having bigger breasts equaled fun to me.

In terms of Google, it came down to this search: “How to reconcile feminism and breast augmentation.” I was not the first one to search on this, which was comforting. I had concerns about letting down my fellow feminists, that maybe I couldn’t call myself a feminist anymore if I had plastic surgery, and ultimately, I wondered if I was going to let MYSELF down. I articulated it to my husband in this way, “I’ve spent a lifetime learning to love this body as it is, and it feels like a betrayal to change it surgically.” He was dumbfounded into silence with that one. I don’t know if men really understand the struggles of body acceptance.

What came of the searching and contemplating, of course, was that this was a personal decision—emphasis on personal—and my fellow feminists uphold that right to choose. Also, this decision had to be for me. That seems obvious, but for a people-pleaser at heart, extracting my husband’s enthusiasm around this idea from my own true thoughts on it was difficult. Probably impossible, I might add, but mostly, it had to be for me. I have found that sometimes these are the hardest decisions to make.

I decided to move forward. In true over-thinker fashion, I had four consultations. Three were local and one in what I considered a plastic surgery mecca, Los Angeles, where I happened to be going anyway. This may have made things more complicated (and expensive), but ultimately I felt very comfortable with my end-decision. I decided to keep it local because my foray into LA had not convinced me the surgeons were any better, and I also learned that my city is a bit of a plastic surgery mecca, which I had not known. I ultimately went with my surgeon because I liked her, I liked her work, and she had great reviews. Pretty standard decision-making on that one.

The remaining question I had was about telling my children. From my discussions with friends I learned that many women did this when their children were young so they had not noticed or cared. I missed that window. Others lied to their kids about having some other procedure and never acknowledged that their boobs mysteriously grew in the process. I knew that was not going to be my approach. In the end I told each child separately what I was planning to do. The 13-year-old boy was embarrassed and an abrupt “OK” was what I got, and then he went back to his screen. The 11-year-old girl wanted to know, emphatically, WHY I would do such a thing. Great question. I chalked it up to personal choice and framed it as a post-children reconstruction. I didn’t mention fun because with my genetics, I didn’t want her to think she was going to miss out on anything when she ended up with the itty bitties. To both I said I didn’t expect them to understand, per se, but to support me and help me out while I was in bed for a few days post-surgery. They agreed.

Choosing the size may have been one of the stranger decision-making processes. They give you actual implants and you stick them into your shirt. It was just like when I stuffed socks into my bra in middle school to help me envision my adult self, or at least what I had hoped for. I took my husband with me for this. It was fun and while I did try on all of the sizes, he helped me land on the size that seemed natural, work-out friendly and, of course, fun. I anticipated buying new clothes to accommodate the new boobs, which added to the benefits for me.

The surgery and recovery were doable in comparison to the pain I had put myself through with the decision-making process. My surgery was a Friday morning and it took just longer than having my teeth cleaned at the dentist. I only took pain pills once. My husband and I did learn that we don’t do well when he’s the caregiver and I’m the receiver, which has some really negative implications for growing old together, but you know, like all of marriage, it’s a one day at a time kind of thing. I healed quickly, as my surgeon predicted I might do—fit people evidently tend to bounce back more quickly—but had been unwilling to guarantee me. I also think I may have had the MOST PRACTICAL breast augmentation of all times, which may have contributed to my quick healing. They look so natural in size that people grow visibly confused in conversation when breast augmentation comes up (it comes up, surprisingly) and I allude to the fact that I’ve done it. I’m a full-B and they are very natural on my frame, even if a bit, ok, a lot perkier than my age would warrant. They are so natural, however, that everything fit me just fine afterward. This ended up being a bit disappointing, if not also reassuring.

My children, while they might have feared a freakish-looking mom, quickly realized the natural-looking-albeit-new-to-them reality and it was a non-issue. Occasionally my daughter will whisper to me in the sweetest of gestures that, “Your boobs look kind of big in that outfit.” I usually respond with a, “Thanks for letting me know,” and when I don’t change, I guess she understands that I’m OK with that.