NEWS FLASH! THEY’RE NOT REAL.
Underneath my living skin, next to my organically beating heart, are two silicone bags filled with 300cc’s of salt water. I mention this now because it’s a new year, a time for moving on. For being that person you always wanted to be. And I can’t, not totally. Because I’ve got two souvenirs from a decade ago permanently affixed to my chest. Imagine having a memento from a bad relationship (like a REALLY hideous sweater) that you have to wear ALL THE TIME EVERYDAY, FOREVER. That’s me. Me and my stupid fake boobs.
I was dating a major douchelord we’ll call Johnny Hollywood. He was a
drug dealer businessman and sold fake designer clothes on ebay internet entrepreneur. I was a 20-something party girl with a drug problem and Daddy issues, so naturally it was a match made in heaven. The only problem? He liked his women to look like slutty whores Pamela Anderson. Looking at pictures of his ex girlfriends was like leafing through Playboy. I, on the other hand, had small (awesome, firm, perky, GodImissthemsomuch) boobs. He offered to “fix” this problem of mine. And with the same careful thought and intense introspection I used to make all my other decisions, I thought “why the hell not?”
Why the hell not indeed. Why not get sedated, cut open, and have a few sacks of goo stuffed behind my pectorals? It would be fun to have big, fat chesticles. And I would get some awesome painkillers. Sign. Me. Up.
I knew immediately I had made a terrible mistake. They were SO BIG. They felt SO WEIRD. They hurt like FUCKING HELL. But I thought, you’ll get used to them, Nicki. You’ll get used to these awful boobages, you will! One day you will probably love them!
It’s 10 years later. I still hate them. Here’s why.
1.They don’t look good. You might think they do, but they don’t. A 115 lb girl with the ribcage of a sparrow isn’t supposed to have D cups, ya’ll. It goes against nature. Also, natural boobs have a teardrop shape. Fake boobs have a toilet plunger shape. When I first got them done, they jutted out from the base of my neck. Now I’ve had a kid, they’ve relaxed a bit, which is nice. Now the toilet plungers jut out above my navel. And here’s something no one tells you: when you get your boobs done your skin stretches, right? Well guess what, genius. So do your nipples. I’d elaborate further, but some things are best left to the imagination.
2. They don’t feel good. When I lean over and grab my underboob, it feels like a half-full two liter of Mountain Dew. Now I LOVE Mountain Dew. I do NOT love this feeling. I am always aware of my boobs, like they are two alien entities and not a part of me like the rest of my body. This makes me feel weird, and not in a good way. And I always have to worry about doing awesome stuff like cliff diving and mountain biking, because I could pop a boob and then I’d have to go to the hospital cradling my poor, limp, deflated boob and I wouldn’t even be able to feel sorry for myself because I’d be all “you deserve this, you silly slut.”
3. They’re not sexy. Let me say that one again. THEY’RE NOT SEXY. We, as humans, are genetically programmed to feel things when we look at breasts. It’s primal, and it affects the ladies as well as the men. I have had my breasts pawed at by other women so much in the last ten years it’s crazy. Big breasts are hypersexual. But being hypersexualized makes me feel like an object. There is a huge difference between someone checking out your face and staring you directly in the tits. I hardly ever wear revealing clothing any more, because it cheapens all the other amazing qualities I have to be reduced to a pair of tits on a stick.
4. People automatically think I’m stupid/slutty/have low self-esteem. I can’t stand getting scornful glances from women who I could totally school in a game of Scrabble. Or having men smile indulgently and baby talk me while they order their Manhattans. But I did think it was a good idea to spend thousands of dollars to be mutilated, so maybe they are on to something.
5. My daughter. Ouch. It hurts just to TYPE that. But yes, my daughter. My beautiful, precious, perfect just-the-way-she-is baby girl. The little tot who says “your boobs are so BIG!” everytime I take off my shirt. I am sending her a very powerful message about not loving yourself. And that fucking sucks.
So? What to do? I’ll tell you. 2014 is the year I say ta-ta to the titties. Sayonara to the sweater puppets. Bon vogage to the boobies. As sick as it makes me to spend good money on elective surgery that could be spent elsewhere, I’m doing it. I am empowering myself to make a decision about myself and my body. Now I am vain, so I do wonder, WHAT WILL THEY LOOK LIKE? It will be interesting to find out. My ever-fertile imagination serves up images of me, braless in a wife beater, with the perky little breasts of a teenager. My wiser self realizes I will probably look like a tribal elder in a National Geographic special.
Will I miss them? Have I gotten used to them without realizing it? Am I secretly preening beneath my discomfort? Only time will tell.
I’m excited for 2014, you guys. And I think you’re all fucking awesome, just the way you are.