a new perkier saline-filled redhead – part 1

As you can guess from the title, I have new boobs.   Well, that is not entirely true.  I still have my original ones, only better.  On a sunny beautiful glorious day this past April, a very talented plastic surgeon altered, positioned, reshaped and only slightly, very slightly augmented them to become the breasts I had only previously dreamed of having. The best part of this that I am sitting at my iMac typing sans brassiere and everything is still in place.  In other words, even though I am leaning forward to type, the only body parts touching my keyboard are my fingers.  Pre-surgery, my incredibly relaxed breasts would have been in the way.  (note:  I use the term relaxed and not sag.  I learned from my research that the medical term is relaxation of the breast.   In learning this, one of my girlfriends exclaimed, “If I am so relaxed why am I always so stressed out?”)

So, after announcing to the blog-world I recently switched to thongs, my plastic surgery proclamation should not shock you.

This is my story of giving myself “the-stereotypical-almost-40-year-old-woman-surgery”.  I joined the lift & implant club.  Oh yes, it is a club.  We pay dues, have a secret handshake and attend monthly meetings.

Why am I so open about this? 

In my life, humor trumps discretion and the entire experience has been a very funny one.  Also, I would rather tell you things about myself than have the whispers behind my back.   I would hope I look different or it was a waste of time, money, itching, discomfort and many bags of frozen peas.   The idea a woman might hide the fact she had breast enhancement surgery is very funny.   Seriously, isn’t the point of the entire ordeal that you now have noticeably perkier breasts?

Why did I do it?

The short answer is obvious.  I wanted better breasts. The slightly longer answer is a bit of a “mid-life awakening.”  I would not say “mid-life crisis” because that implies destructive behavior as a means of fighting the idea I am aging.   Like many women who devote a huge chunk of life to the mommy-phase, last year I experienced a very startling moment of walking past a mirror and not recognizing the person I saw.  Right after that shock comes the mental lightning bolt of “wait a minute, somebody needs to take care of me.”  And, as is typical in my house, if “somebody” needs to do something, that somebody can only be one person – ME!

I started looking in the mirror and not just when I was flossing.  I really looked in the mirror and realized the clock was ticking and the excuses were running out. 

I admitted I couldn’t call it baby weight if the “baby” rides a bike without training wheels, has mastered the song “Rock You Like a Hurricane” on Guitar Hero and can program his own “Phineas and Ferb” season pass on the family room Tivo.

That was it.  I needed to do something.  Time to take charge of my almost-middle-aged body.  I came to a decision.  In addition to all the minutia of maintaining a household and keeping a husband and three kids well cared for, I forced myself to find a way to direct at least some of my energy towards my own physical well-being.

In other words, I stopped eating the leftover bagel bites and got my tush to the gym on a regular basis.  (Let’s be honest, it was not just leftover bagel bites, it was really any leftover food made with bread, cheese, flour, chocolate, butter, sugar ……. okay any leftovers, any food, anything not moving – except Jell-O, that moves and I ate that too.)  I think you get the point. I finally got inspired to eat better and start running again.  (At this point, I must insert a plug for one of my favorite running songs ever, Queen’s  “Fat Bottomed Girls”.  It is a very inspirational song to run to.  Not only does it have fantastic rhythm, you just have to hear a man say “fat bottomed girls” out loud and that is all the inspiration you need to want to run off the 410-calorie sausage biscuit you wolfed down for breakfast).

There is just one problem.  Once the weight came off my post baby (well, really post babies) body, there is a sad realization.  After breast skin has been stretched, it does not snap back to where it used to be – or, in my case where it unfortunately never was in the first place. I never had perky breasts pre-baby so don’t ask me why in the world I thought they would magically appear later in life.  And yes, Victoria’s Secret makes some wonderful bras with great lift.  However, that does not help you when you run into your cute male neighbors while you are taking out the garbage in your pajamas at 6 in the morning.  Nor do those bras do anything for you when you are wearing nothing but a paper gown at your yearly GYN appt and attempting to have an intelligent discussion with your Doctor while simultaneously trying to non-chalantly hoist your breasts into place.  Most importantly, those overpriced water-filled uplifting bras don’t work well under all the fabulous gowns I want to purchase for the upcoming B’nai Mitzvah seasons.

Joking aside, I will admit I do not take the idea of being cut open very lightly.  I have seen too many graphic Nip/Tuck scenes to be completely comfortable with the idea.  I also cringed at the thought of something going wrong with the procedure.  I imagined my husband telling  our children, “Mommy really just wanted to be able to wear a halter top.”  However, I definitely had breast envy when I would see my girlfriends who did have the surgery.  The idea of being able to wear a tank top with only a shelf bra was more exciting (and unrealistic) to me than a completely solar powered McMansion!  I would come home from seeing “my friends with the great boobs” and stand in front of the mirror adjusting my breasts to where I thought they should be.  So, I thought about it.  And, I thought about it and I thought about it. And then, one day I asked my husband what he thought.  Some may say he does have a vested interest in the state of my breasts as well.

My unsuspecting husband was so completely walking into a landmine.  How can a husband answer the following question in any way and be right? 

“Do you think I should get a boob job?”

Honestly, there is no good way to answer.  He really can’t say, “That is a wonderful idea.  I have been meaning to tell you that you remind me of my favorite childhood toy, the slinky.” If that is his response, he is going to be in trouble for a long long time.  However, if he is not supportive, that is not great either.  My husband actually did pretty well.  He calmly and without great emotion said, “ I think that would be okay.”  Brilliant!

So, then the research begins.  In just a few short weeks, I spent more time online looking at women’s breasts than Peter Cook did during his 10-year-marriage to Christie Brinkley.   This is an unintentional tip to men out there who want to look at porn without getting raked over the coals by your current wife’s future divorce attorney.   Go ahead and google “breast augmentation”.  The photo galleries on the plastic surgeons’ sites include more naked breasts than even Hugh Hefner has seen in his 187 years at the playboy mansion.

Before I even walked into a doctor’s office, I was well educated in the different types of lifts, implant sizes, suture styles and incisions.  I learned about saline implants and the new improved and supposedly safe silicone implants.  I read information about placing the implant over the muscle or under the muscle.   In my research,  I have seen breasts of all ages, sizes, shapes and stretch levels.  By the way, the scariest pictures are the before pictures of women who had “bad implants” and need them fixed.  I never even knew someone could get “bad implants”.  I thought you just make a small incision, stuff the sac in and sew it up.  I should not have assumed breast augmentation surgery is similar to Martha Stewart’s thanksgiving turkey recipe in which you just slide your hand between the skin and the meat, insert the glob of butter and close up the bird.  Wouldn’t you think performing boob jobs would be similar?  Unfortunately for these lopsided boobed women, there is definitely a way to mess up breast augmentation.  Let’s just say one breast was pointing Northeast and the other Southwest.  Incidentally, every “bad surgery before” had the same caption, “patient originally underwent cosmetic surgery during a trip to Costa Rica.”  I intend no disrespect to the Costa Rican medical professionals BUT, if I decide to travel to Costa Rica, the only sacs I will bring back will be filled with coffee beans, not saline.

Aside from online research, there were at least a few women I know whom I could ask directly – okay, maybe just a little bit more than a few.   It would be fair to say that the ten-mile radius around my home contains more saline than most hospital emergency rooms.  But, there is a small problem.  Even someone as outspoken as myself cannot just walk up to another woman and ask about her experience with breast enhancement surgery.   Instead, I would casually mention I was considering the surgery.  In most cases, the woman with the great boobs would then volunteer her story and the name and number of her plastic surgeon.  However, there are always a few of these women who will look at you with shock and pretend she never even knew this type of surgery existed.  Meanwhile, her huge implants are bursting out of her shirt and up to her shoulders.  In general, though I got the best information from my close friends who have had the surgery.  They were wonderful.  They prepared me with the information the doctor does not tell you (this blog is getting a bit long so I will go into all the “after surgery” fun stuff separately.)

And finally, the last detail to attempt to work out before that fateful consultation with the surgeon is part of a great debate.  There are many debates in women’s lives.  Working v. Non-Working moms, private schools v. public schools, Obama v. McCain, pro-choice v. pro-life, shaving v. waxing, acrylic nails v. natural nails, clay courts v. hard courts……. You get the picture.  However, I discovered one more in my research.  Do I get the breast lift alone or get implants as well?   

Once the decision is made to have the surgery, there is still much fun to be had.  I will continue this on my next entry.  Right now, I need to go slather on some Vitamin E and Palmer’s cocoa butter and do my implant exercises before I go to bed for the night.  Oh yes girls, once you have them, you must do your exercises daily. 

There is much more I want to share about this journey so please check back in with me later in the week.   I vow to find the time to write more even if it means having to bribe my children with a new Wii game.  If you don’t hear from me ever again, you can assume our Wii has broken and all H-E-double-hockey-sticks has broken loose in my home.