A while back I published a post on Mommy Bubbles where I discussed the best way to ratchet your girls back up to their former glory (or at least how to pump them up to where you thought they should have been when you were in high school). I also promised to share my research into the next level of upper body enhancement. That favorite of all nips and tucks, the boob job!!
I’ll be honest, I’ve gone round and round with this decision myself. I’m definitely having a tummy tuck to repair all the damage the triplets left behind — right after I lose 10 more pounds. And it seems like a shame to waste all that perfectly good anesthesia and not come out of it with a pair of pert, perky poodles in the process (O.k. seriously, I couldn’t come up with a p-word for boobs). So I decided the time had come to visit my friendly, neighborhood plastic surgeon…just to see what I might be in for should I choose to go for the gusto when I have my tuck.
If you’re one of the many who have never had reason to consult with a plastic surgeon, allow me to enlighten you on the process. You simply call them up and make an appointment. The initial consult is completely free and you have no obligation. Sounds pretty sweet right?
The first guy I went to obviously had aspirations to be the next Dr. 90210. There were cheesy pictures in his waiting area, most of the staff had obviously been taking advantage of their employee discount. And I swear to you, there was a rack in one corner where he was selling purses. You know the ones — lots of animal print and maribou. I felt unsettled, but I figured “in for a penny, in for a pound” and decided to see if things got better on the other side of the waiting room door.
Nope!! Once I was invited back to the holding area treatment rooms, I was assailed by a bevy of beauty school drop outs that passed for nursing staff. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have 6 weeks of nursing experience between the 10 of them, but it was way too late to turn back now.
Once in the room, Beauty School Dropout #1 ran through a list of standard questions including “Which parts of yourself are you least satisfied with?” She had trouble reading some of the words, but dutifully noted my answers using a pen topped with a puff of pink maribou. I wondered if she knew there was a matching purse in the waiting room.
Once she crossed the last T and dotted the last I (I’m sure I saw a heart), she shoved a paper gown and a black string bikini top at me. I was pretty sure of how to use the gown, but what was I supposed to do with half a swimsuit? “Will there be complementary tanning?” I asked Maribou Barbie. She never cracked a smile. Maybe the botox wouldn’t let her use those muscles. It had to be something like that, because let’s face it — I’m freakin’ hilarious!
Unsmiling, unamused, possibly botoxed Maribou Barbie opened a nearby drawer to reveal an assortment of implants — none of which were the same size. They ranged from 250 ccs (which will take the average person up roughly one cup size) all the way to 500 ccs (picture a very large grapefruit, or a very small cantaloupe — then picture yourself working a pole at the nearest strip club because God knows implants this big will completely negate your education). I was instructed to don the bikini top and try on implants until I found a size I liked. Sound easy? It wasn’t. Here’s why.
Implants are surprisingly weighty. String bikini tops are unbelievably stretchy. Inserting heavy implants into a stretchy bikini top results in something you might expect to see in a funhouse mirror — if you visited the funhouse wearing a black bikini top and a paper nightgown.
The smallest implant wasn’t that bad, but remember that none of them were the same size. So I dropped a 250cc implant on the left and a 300cc implant on the right, then turned this way and that to get an idea of which one might look reasonably lifelike if it were made to hover somewhere over my chest wall, rather than halfway to my navel as was currently the case.
I ditched both those implants and tied the bikini top up as tightly as I could. I dropped a 475cc globe in the left triangle of the bikini top and balanced a 500cc globe in the other. It was so big, it kept trying to topple out, but I figured that much was at least anatomically accurate. I let go of both implants at once and almost snotted myself laughing. I looked like a slutty Ma Kettle.
About that time King Sleaze entered and proceeded to rob me of every shred of hard won self-esteem. He pointed out flaws I’d never noticed, urged procedures I’d never even considered. And when I told him I wanted a smaller, more natural outcome up top, assured me I would never be happy with an implant smaller than 450 ccs.
Now, I’m not naive. Plastic surgery is a pay for play game, and I’d already heard that some guys work harder than others to assure repeat business. But I have to say that this guy’s tactics completely backfired. Instead of leaving thinking, “Oh my gosh! I’m a bigger wreck than I thought. I really need this guy’s help!” I left thinking, “This @#$%#$ is lucky I didn’t set the whole @#$%ing place on fire!” Because I don’t believe in self-esteem. It’s mutable and fleeting. A simple hormone shift can rob you of it just as surely as a sleazeball plastic surgeon. Instead, I bank on self-delusion — meaning that most of the time I think I look good despite all evidence to the contrary. Delusional? Yes. But you don’t mess with a crazy woman’s delusions. This guy very nearly got shanked with an eyebrow pencil.
The one good thing that came of it? I became aware of something called The Rice Test. And this is actually kind of fun. Get some cheap knee-high pantyhose, a pair of scissors and a bargain bag of rice and you’re well on your way to boobalicious fun.
My second consult with another physician was completely different than the first, and I left with a very favorable impression of that doctor and his staff. But I still plan to shop around a bit more before a make a final decision. I strongly urge anyone considering a plastic surgery procedure to research not only the procedure itself, but the doctor performing it as well. Be advised that not all pictures featured on a surgeon’s site are necessarily their own work. Sometimes stock pictures are used to illustrate what you can generally expect, but make sure you ask to see pictures specifically of his or her own work before you make your final decision.
Just because it’s voluntary doesn’t mean it isn’t MAJOR surgery, and I waffle from one day until the next over what I will or will not have done when the time comes. But once I do make up my mind, I promise to share all the goriest (or at least the funniest) details.
