My Story: Plastic Surgery. (Part I)

A friend and I were recently talking about cosmetic procedures; specifically, we were critiquing overdone celebrity Botox.  My take on Botox is this: no one with a needle full of botulism is getting anywhere near my face and eradicating the lines and expressions that indicate I have intelligence, compassion, and a sense of humor lurking inside.

However, I believe that it’s each individual’s right personal business what steps they want to take to feel young and desirable and energetic and happy.  Some women buy shoes.  Some men date young blondes.  Some men and women turn to plastic surgery.  And I believe that – as long as they have the job or the insurance or the sugar daddy to pay for it – then that’s their prerogative.

My friend, however, had a much different view.  “I would NEVER,” she proclaimed, “have PLASTIC SURGERY.”  (The last two words were delivered in a shouted whisper and dripped with disdain.)  “That’s just vain.”

Well, yes, yes it is.  And I understand that she’s talking specifically about elective, mostly unnecessary surgeries to alter one’s appearance.  But my two points to my friend is this: NEVER is a strong word.  You don’t know what the future holds.  Perhaps your future holds breast cancer; reconstruction involves plastic surgery.  What if you are in a horrible car wreck?  Plastic surgery could possibly put you back together.  And aren’t those two examples of good – but still vain – reasons to have plastic surgery?

My other point to my friend: you should be careful to whom you declare such strong opinions.

I’ve had plastic surgery.  I don’t talk about it often, and you probably wouldn’t know it to look at me.  I didn’t keep it a secret; my good friends and my family knew I had it done, and they understood the reasons why and they supported my decision to do it.

On November 20, 2002 – my 27th birthday, actually – I had a combined breast reduction and lift.  I went from an unwieldy size 38-Ginormous to a much more manageable 38C.  It was invasive, it was painful, it was completely elective, and it remains one of the top 3 best decisions I have ever made in my life.

I was tired of wearing two sports bras to exercise.  I hated having to pick them up off my belly button to shove them into my bra.  I couldn’t find shirts to fit properly and I had to strategically pin my clothing shut so I wouldn’t give away the farm.

Most of all, I was disgusted with men holding entire conversations with my breasts.

My decision to go under the knife was not made lightly, it wasn’t made impulsively, and it definitely wasn’t made quickly.  Instead, my journey to the operating table developed over nearly 17 years, a time in which I struggled with too much self-consciousness and too little self-confidence.  A time in which I received too much attention for assets that were obvious and too little attention for assets that weren’t so obvious.

Continued in part II.