I was going to call this post “The Time I Cut My Boobs Off”, but I don’t know if that really tells the story properly.
You see, as with most young girls, one of my genetic blessings was the ability to grow boobs. One of my genetic faults was that they never stopped growing.
I know what you’re thinking. People PAY to have their chests extended and WANT to walk around top heavy.
Me? Not so much.
Do you know what I was noticed for in high school? I can tell you it wasn’t my wit, my green eyes or blonde hair. In fact I’d be surprized if they even noticed I had eyes at all.
I can’t even tell you the amount of times ignorant, pubescent boys asked me what size bra I wore or passed disgusting comments my way. Although it was considerably worse when it came from fully grown men! (I wish I was joking) Or the time I was groped by a fellow teenager while I was out shopping at Cavendish. I still shudder every time I think about it.
The reality was that I had a rather large chest area.
I hated it. So much so that looking back at the pictures brings this nervous, sick feeling back to my stomach. The one I lived with most of my teenage years. Buying clothing that hid them and didn’t expose cleavage big enough to lose an arm in was difficult. Buying bras that fitted, lifted and lasted was a costly, traumatic experience. Just ask my poor Mom who bravely joined me on these outings.
Not only did my chesticles decide to grow out of proportion for my body, they decided to grow out of proportion of each other. I’m embarrassed to share that my left side was an “F” and my right was a “G”. That’s right boys and girls, I’m not making this up. In fact, my right shoulder is still slightly lower than my left from carrying the extra weight around for all that time.
You probably want some kind of photographic evidence right? Here you go. This is me at about 18ish.
When I knew that Seth and I were getting married, I knew I couldn’t walk down the aisle like this. My matric dance dress was a depressing disaster, the same goes for my college formal dress. It just couldn’t happen on “the happiest day of my life” too.
So I put aside all the stigma’s of plastic surgery and went to see a well recommend surgeon at my hospital. After stripping down and revealing what I had hidden for so long, the purple marker lines were drawn, little happy pills taken, nonsense talked, deep sleep enduced and the tissue removed.
They removed 1.5kg worth of skin.
I’m going to say that again. 1.5kg worth of skin.
I woke up (and despite flipping over onto my tummy in my post surgery haze) everything turned out perfectly.
Did it affect my ability to breastfeed? Yes. But by the time Knox came it had worked itself out enough to feed him exclusively for 6 months.
So yes. I am all for necessary plastic surgery.
Just out of interest, this is the same top a couple of years later (apparently I like to make duck faces and keep clothing for a really long time)
Interestingly, now that my body has experienced the joys of growing 3 little people and then subsequently trying to feed them, I would be lying if I told you that I wouldn’t mind giving them a little plump and lift again. Just saying.