I had a pretty ugly time of it from junior high to my senior year of high school. Most people would never believe I was mocked and taunted in school with rhymes like, “Roses are red. Violets are black. The front of your chest is as flat as my back.” I have lived on both sides of the gamut of breast sizes.
When I transformed from nerdy, ugly duckling to glorious swan, it was almost overnight. Technically, in one summer after my senior year, I went from a B cup bra to DDD’s. My boobs kept growing from there. They were steadily growing and growing and growing until I gave birth and nursed. Ever since, I have been experiencing back pain and plotting my reduction.
I put a breast reduction on my vision board. I manifested the money for it 4 different times, but couldn’t bring myself to make the appointment and get it done. Just this year, I managed to get myself 20x the amount I needed so I wouldn’t feel guilty leaving my family in the lurch spending so much money in one place. While I am super excited to wear strapless dresses, find my waist line, and be rid of the crippling back pains, I am now facing the realization that I am going back to being that flatter chested girl again. Except, this time, I’m almost 50 years old.
I don’t think breasts equal beauty. However I am coming to realize I have built an identity around being the bust of all the jokes. What I am saying is, boobs have been a crutch for me in a way I never realized until now. They helped me compensate for years with ugly feelings. They made up for my slightly crooked, ski slope nose, my close set eyes, my soft tummy and whatever else I scrutinized while looking in the mirror. All these slight imperfections seemed to bother me less because I had the biggest natural boobs in the known universe.
In less than a couple months, I won’t have them anymore. Not that the long, saggy breasts they are today are anything to write home about. In fact, they’ll certainly look better nude AFTER the reduction. But, they fed my kids. My youngest still loves them maybe more than anything on earth even at the age of 7. When Junah was about 4 or 5 and I first informed him of this intention, he cried-real tears at the prospect of my boobs going away. I don’t have any doubts my family will love me all the same without them. I just think there is something in them, despite the massive pain they have been in my neck, literally. There is something that we will all be adjusting to, something I will miss.
Am I enough to get by without them? Or more specifically, am I pretty enough to get by as just another pretty face? I am weighing out the costs and benefits knowing the final decision has already been made. When I need to work through something, I write it out. Maybe, this sounds like a low point for me, some really deep inadequacy. I don’t feel exceptionally low writing about it. I just felt this was necessary. I needed to say, “goodbye.”
I was once transformed from an ugly duckling to a swan overnight, and now, I am going from a swan to something else. I am ready. I know everyone who has gone before me is the happiest they’ve ever been after this transformation. As surgeries go, this one has the highest satisfaction rate of all of them. I probably can’t even fathom how much freedom this transformation will bring me. I know I can’t. I know it’s going to be HUGE, unfathomably huge.
I may seem to be a little less special. I guess that’s what has me thinking and also, writing. Now that I gave those feelings a voice, it sounds kind of silly. But, I’m glad I said it. I’m also glad I have given myself the chance to be grateful for all my breasts have been as well as all they’ll be.
I like lessons. Let’s see if I can wrap this little Swan Song to my breasts up for all of us. It’s starting to get awkward. Ok, maybe it’s been awkward for a few minutes. Nevertheless, let’s cut this off, like my boobs. See what I did there?
Moral to the story: when in doubt, write it out. Mmm… I think I can do better, and I take that back. I know I can do better. But just right now, I am fresh out of life lessons. Perhaps, I can leave this up to you, the reader, to figure out the moral of the story about my boobs if you cared. Or not. Maybe this is one of those diary entries I should have kept to myself, but since I never do that, you’re stuck with it.
Bye-bye, boobies.
The End.