Over the next thirty years I learned how to change shirts without getting undressed, had sex in the dark, and eventually consulted a plastic surgeon who went Crayloa crazy on my chest with a large blue magic marker, warning me that nursing babies would be near impossible (so much for that idea). My droopy flying saucer breasts were apparently my cross to bear.
Fast forward to a husband and two children later and I found myself in another plastic surgeon’s office, this time discussing saggy earlobes. Well, it turned out I wasn’t a candidate for that either but after having paid the $150 consultation fee, I courageously lifted up my shirt and asked, “Can you do anything with these?”
Thankfully his approach was dramatically different. There were a plethora of options he explained, one of which, to my complete surprise, did NOT require implants. The procedure was called a breast lift. According to him, there were no hellacious scars, and, despite my incessant questioning, no imminent risk of bleeding out or dying either. In fact, the only real issue I had was unraveling my pent up, antiquated judgments about elective cosmetic surgery: the vanity, looking desperate and fake, clinging to youth, and getting old, etc. Even with the opportunity to finally fix what I saw as a deformity and to let go of the insecurity that had paralyzed me, I was rattled with guilt and shame about doing something about it.