You guys, I really want plastic surgery. I look in the mirror, and I don’t like what I see.
More after the jump…
OK, so if you’ve come this far, you haven’t decided to unsubscribe from my blog and you’re thinking I probably want butt implants or something so I can look like Kim Kardashian.
Actually, the kind of surgery I ponder most is a breast reduction.
I went through puberty really early. I had C-cup breasts by 5th grade, and they kept growing. When I was that age, they didn’t teach sex ed until at least middle school! I was very confused and always thought I was getting really fat – I didn’t understand why I couldn’t wear the same shirts as my sisters. I didn’t understand why my mom wouldn’t let me get the cute sundress for 6th grade graduation. Girls would yell, “Silicone!” and giggling behind their hands. I was sort of sheltered, so I didn’t really know what they were talking about. (I was really sheltered, OK? My parent were pretty religious, and my mom never sat me down to talk about My Changing Body, even though that would have been really effing helpful. Pobably also didn’t help that my sisters were both late bloomers, so I went through it alone.) I finally got the “Silicone!” joke as a freshman in college. I had a flashback in calculus class, and suddenly understood that the joke I had laughed at was about me.
I feel like my figure has held me back in terms of professional respect. I had coworkers who thought it was totally normal to comment on them. Males and females (females were actually worse, and there was one who talked about my boobs to people I hadn’t even met. Eeesh!). Yes, really.
I’ve had consistent back pain since high school. I wear 2 sports bras when I run, and it’s still uncomfortable. I can’t wear sundresses. I have one bathing suit that I bought 5 years ago – just before Victoria’s Secret stopped carrying my size. Honest to God, there are even some yoga poses I can’t do because of the mass of flesh sitting on my chest!
I know some of you are probably thinking, “Oh, and I bet your diamond tiara is too heavy and your bejeweled Louboutins are pinching your toes. STFU with your middle-class issues!” Maybe you wish you had my problem.
It’s just that they don’t fit the way I think about myself. Every time I look in the mirror, I feel surprised that they’re there. My whole life, I’ve felt wrong, awkwardly stuffed into the wrong body. This might also explain my social anxiety issues.
I’ve already decided that I’ll be getting a breast reduction – probably sometime after I have kids. I know plastic surgery is supposedly one of the signs of the complete degradation of our society. I don’t care.
Maybe people will think it’s OK, especially since I’m doing the opposite of that trashy “other” plastic surgery. After all, there aren’t any porn stars or strippers looking for smaller breasts. I’m not conforming to society’s ideal standard of beauty, just my own. However, the body dysmorphia is the same as what drove Heidi Montag to her surgery buffet. I’m guilty of judgement, too; although I may indulge my desire for a breast reduction, I will probably never get a nose job, even though I think it would make my face look much better.
What do you think? Do you think spending that amount of money on something cosmetic is insane? Do you think that I should learn to love and accept my body, with all of its flaws? Did you already unsubscribed and aren’t even reading this right now?