Ever since I can remember being conscious of the idea of a body being either “good” or “bad,” I can remember wishing that my own body were different. I can’t tell you when it started, but I know I’ve felt this way so long that I can’t actually remember what it feels like to feel good about my body. Awesome, right?
I don’t really know what caused my extremely terrible body image, but I have a few theories.
I grew up in this really lovely town in Northern California that happened to be full of white people who looked nothing like me. It wasn’t just that they were a different color than me (that’s a bag of issues I’ll save to unpack on another day) but their bodies were different too. My hometown is big on athletics, particularly water sports and soccer. So imagine if you will, a bunch of lanky, tanned, sun-bleached blonde amazons agilely prancing around and you might begin to imagine where some of my issues came from.
I still remember very vividly the summer my boobs arrived. I was 13 years old and over the course of 2 months I went from a very reasonable B cup to a staggering DD.
By the time I started high school I only had one bra that fit me and it was this awful white shiny floral thing that I’m pretty sure we got at Mervyn’s. I was already a pretty curvy girl and then you add on the monster cans and what I was left with really didn’t jive with the preferred athletic body type that surrounded me.
So there you have it, from the day I got these things, I didn’t want them.
I’ve thought about getting a reduction for about a million years, but because of the awesome thing that is the American Medical-Industrial Complex, I haven’t been able to make it happen. Now thanks to the grace of God (or something) and the IMMENSE generosity of my parents, it’s finally coming to pass.
That’s right, in less than two weeks I will be reducing my glorious chesticles from a J cup to somewhere around a D and finally, I am terrified.
At first I was just really excited about the prospect of smaller boobs, having hated mine for so long. I dreamed of delicate lacy bras that don’t look like something one would use to launch catapults in a medieval battle. I fantasized about walking into any old store that happens to sell bras and picking one up off the shelf and it actually fitting me. I imagined what it would be like to hate my spinning classes for the normal reasons (because spinning is torture sent up from hell) and not because I was constantly knee-ing myself in the boobs as I rode.
I rode that wave of excitement for a long time too. People kept asking me if I was nervous, and I could honestly respond that no, I wasn’t, I was just stoked.
However, sometime between my pre-op visit and some foolhardy late night googling I partook in the other night, I realized the enormity of what I’m about to do.
I have no idea what a cc is, but apparently I’m gonna have about 1,100 of them removed from each tit. Further late-night googling enlightened me that this is a little more than a liter. They are gonna take a liter out of each of my boobs. I am freaking out.
That is so much of me, and it’s just gonna be gone. Shipped off to some lab to be tested for malignancy (that’s good at least) and then what? What happens to all the fat that gets taken out of people after it’s tested? Is some jerk gonna take my boob fat and make soap out of it? Am I? Am I Tyler Durden?!
Sorry, I’m getting carried away now. But seriously, aside from the actual physical pain that I will be in after having a LITER OF FLESH removed from each of my boobs, what on earth is that going to be like, psychologically? Am I going to like the way I look with smaller boobs? Is my ass going to look huge without something to balance it out? Am I suddenly going to miss them when they’re gone?
For so long I have identified as a woman with huge boobs. It is probably the first thing people notice when they see me, and it’s one of the strongest identifiers I have. I know they don’t define me but they are (literally) a huge part of me and I have no idea what life will be like without them.
I’m glad I waited so long to get scared about things, but now that the fear has finally caught up with me I am FEELING it. I am hoping to be able to recapture some of that initial excitement because I know in the long run this will end up being such a positive thing for my quality of life, but it’s hard to find that positive spin when I’m reading about surgical drains.
Anyway, I’ll be documenting all the details the painkillers will allow me to remember. What will happen when I have to share my 450-square-foot apartment with another human being for 10 days? (Hi Mom!) How many times can I watch the first 3 seasons of Game of Thrones while I’m recovering before I get sick of it? (Pretty sure the answer is infinity) Is it true that bras aren’t actually supposed to leave horrible indentations on your shoulders? (This happens to everybody right?) I don’t know the answer to any of these questions but I’m going to find out, and I hope you’ll join me.