More on my Boobs
Hardest step completed? Check. I actually picked up the phone and made an appointment to see a plastic surgeon for a consultation. I'm nervous, but my excitement far outweighs it.
You see, my entire life I have been known as "The Girl with the Big Boobs" or "The Girl with the Huge Tits". This is not, contrary to popular belief, how I want to be viewed. I would rather people say "The Girl Who is Nice" or "The Girl with the Pleasant Smile". Not part of my anatomy. Boys oogled me starting in the sixth grade. I started right off in the regular bra department, skipping training bras altogether. Ha! My boobs didn't need trained, they were growing just fine on their own. I can remember staring at myself in the dressing room mirror, wearing my first bra, and sobbing. I hated that thing, that constricted and dug into me. I hated the fact that most of my friends only wore a bra because they wanted to, not because they had to. And they just kept growing.
In high school, I was just starting to date this guy when I came across him and his friend in the hallway. The friend was gesturing with his hands, making large hill signs. I heard him ask "Have you climbed the mountains yet?" To my shock and humiliation, they were talking about my breasts.
Every dress that I tried on pulled tight (or not at all) across the chest. I eventually couldn't even wear a dress anymore, I had to resort to seperates. If I bought something big enough to wear in the top, then it was hugely big in the bottom. And strapless bras? Forget it. My prom dress was strapless, and I had to wear a bra that was a size too small and be on boob patrol all night. I spent the dance obcessively checking to make sure neither one of the girls was making an appearance.
Bras just don't fit. Boobs spill out on the sides and top of the bra everytime. I have to wear a washrag under it so that it doesn't dig into my skin and cause a rash (which has happened before, and yes I had to go to the doctor and explain to him that my boobs were giving me a rash). I have dents and bumps and knots all in my shoulders and back, and I get headaches a lot from the strain on my neck and shoulders.
But I called. the. doctor. Even through all of these problems, I kind of felt like maybe big boobs were my identity, that messing with them would make me invisable. I think that's why I had such a hard time making that call. Plus, I mean it is surgery, and no one likes that. But god, to be able to run (run!) down the street without giving myself a black eye? That's priceless. I can't tell you the last time that I actually ran. (and not just because an ex-boyfriend once told me I looked like a retarded bird when I did.)
I'll keep you updated, of course. My appointment is this Tuesday, January 10. Keep your fingers crossed! Oh, and before you even ask, the excess boobage has already been promised to half the women that I know, so I don't know if there will be enough to go around. There could be, because there is a lot, but don't get your hopes up.
You see, my entire life I have been known as "The Girl with the Big Boobs" or "The Girl with the Huge Tits". This is not, contrary to popular belief, how I want to be viewed. I would rather people say "The Girl Who is Nice" or "The Girl with the Pleasant Smile". Not part of my anatomy. Boys oogled me starting in the sixth grade. I started right off in the regular bra department, skipping training bras altogether. Ha! My boobs didn't need trained, they were growing just fine on their own. I can remember staring at myself in the dressing room mirror, wearing my first bra, and sobbing. I hated that thing, that constricted and dug into me. I hated the fact that most of my friends only wore a bra because they wanted to, not because they had to. And they just kept growing.
In high school, I was just starting to date this guy when I came across him and his friend in the hallway. The friend was gesturing with his hands, making large hill signs. I heard him ask "Have you climbed the mountains yet?" To my shock and humiliation, they were talking about my breasts.
Every dress that I tried on pulled tight (or not at all) across the chest. I eventually couldn't even wear a dress anymore, I had to resort to seperates. If I bought something big enough to wear in the top, then it was hugely big in the bottom. And strapless bras? Forget it. My prom dress was strapless, and I had to wear a bra that was a size too small and be on boob patrol all night. I spent the dance obcessively checking to make sure neither one of the girls was making an appearance.
Bras just don't fit. Boobs spill out on the sides and top of the bra everytime. I have to wear a washrag under it so that it doesn't dig into my skin and cause a rash (which has happened before, and yes I had to go to the doctor and explain to him that my boobs were giving me a rash). I have dents and bumps and knots all in my shoulders and back, and I get headaches a lot from the strain on my neck and shoulders.
But I called. the. doctor. Even through all of these problems, I kind of felt like maybe big boobs were my identity, that messing with them would make me invisable. I think that's why I had such a hard time making that call. Plus, I mean it is surgery, and no one likes that. But god, to be able to run (run!) down the street without giving myself a black eye? That's priceless. I can't tell you the last time that I actually ran. (and not just because an ex-boyfriend once told me I looked like a retarded bird when I did.)
I'll keep you updated, of course. My appointment is this Tuesday, January 10. Keep your fingers crossed! Oh, and before you even ask, the excess boobage has already been promised to half the women that I know, so I don't know if there will be enough to go around. There could be, because there is a lot, but don't get your hopes up.
posted by D. @ 11:45 AM
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