Tomorrow

Tomorrow, my life will change dramatically. I will be lying unconscious on an operating table, my porcelain flesh exposed to a handsome surgeon from New York who will alter my appearance (and my life) with a quick flick of his scalpel.

Tomorrow I will do something I have fantasized about since high school: I will undergo breast reduction surgery. I will bid farewell to my oversized cans and then return home to fling open my lingerie drawer, drag out my size DD boulder-holders, hand them over to Goodwill and replace them with considerably smaller, prettier unmentionables.

The first time I heard a professional utter the words "breast reduction" was in 1995. At 24, I had finally decided to see a chiropractor about my backaches. My chiropractor was the older brother of my best friend Michele and had known me since I was 12. Jeff was quick to point out that my back problems were likely a result of my generous bosom (no, he didn’t use those words… I’m embellishing, it’s allowed). The fact that Jeff had been like my own brother since my pre-pubescent days caused some embarrassment and I took my diagnosis and fled.

Over the years, other chiropractors would make the same recommendation: “Honey, it’s your tits. Lop ‘em off.” (Again, embellishing.) The truth is, although I'm curvy and have never been called "thin," my frame is actually rather small to be carrying such heavy mounds of flesh. My narrow shoulders are simply exhausted from shouldering (how's that for wordplay?) the weight and my back and neck have paid the price. Being in the fine shape I am these days has not eased the discomfort, regrettably.

I consulted a plastic surgeon back in NYC and, for about five seconds, considered paying his exorbitant Fifth Avenue fee. It took moving to my small coastal town to finally find a surgeon I trust, along with an insurance company that will pick up the tab. My chiropractor calls the surgery preventive, seeing as how my back problems would only become worse as I hunch further and further over until, eventually, I’m able to sweep the kitchen floor with my boobs.

So, after considerable thought, I decided it's time. I'm in the best physical shape of my life, healthy as hell and ready to submit to my surgeon's skilled hands. The decision has been an emotional one, as I've always been fond of my soft, round, womanly endowments (as have others over the years... no embellishment there. One ex-boyfriend had this to say: "Why was I not consulted about this? I say, no. Please, no.") But, as I've gotten older and more active, they've been more an impediment than asset. So, off they go!

I'd consider posting "before and after" photos, but then this website would start showing up on all kinds of questionable site listings and shit if I want to expose myself to all measure of online scoundrels and randy old men asking why I’d go and mess with the gorgeous gifts bestowed upon me.

Once I emerge from my drug-induced haze, I'll write a detailed description of what my feet look like, as I'll see them for the first time since puberty. Meanwhile, think good thoughts for your soon-to-be happier-chested friend on Wednesday, when the big ol' boobs will see the light of day for the last time and be magically transformed into something far more portable. Since you all know I prefer to travel light!

Posted by ayelet at September 6, 2005 11:21 PM