Could bigger really be better?
November 14, 2007
The other day, I was at the gym totally joking around with the girls about this and that. Our lunchtime workout crew is like a little sewing circle, chewing the fat and catching one another up on all the latest gossip.I’m in a feisty mood, so I’m even more talkative than usual, throwing out bold statements like, “If I’m not married by the time I’m 40, I’m gonna have my boobs done.”To my chagrin, the girls all chimed in all at once, their ears perked up and tails wagging.”Oh my God, you should totally do it,” one said.”Men really are that stupid,” another said.”I had mine done two years ago. Wanna see them?” asked the third.Why is it that women who have had their breasts done always want to show them to people? The worst is when they ask you if you want to feel them, so I’m relieved this woman has the self-restraint to put hers on display without expecting me to pay a visit to the petting zoo.But the worst is when Becky, the Pilates teacher, looks at me point-blank and says, “You know, it would really bring your body into proportion.”To add insult to injury, I know exactly what she means by that. “You wouldn’t want to go too big, of course,” she continues, her tone of authority becoming more intense with every word. “Just fuller. It will change your life. I mean, if I didn’t already have big boobs, I would totally get them.”Is this what it all boils to down to?Believe me, I know this isn’t a new topic by any means, but lately it seems like everyone I know has either had plastic surgery or is thinking of getting it.Like, I ran into my friend Jane the other day at City Market. She just had her first baby and already has made the trip down to Denver for a consultation with the top boob guy. Jane is about as beautiful as they come, skinny and blonde, and in a great marriage with a wonderful guy she adores, who also happens to be handsome and rich. You would think she has it all, but the one thing she’s missing – at least in her own mind – is better boobs.”Breast feeding just deflated them like little balloons,” she said, rolling her eyes. I looked her up and down, trying to understand how a woman this good-looking and well off could possibly be dissatisfied with herself.The next day, Jane wrote me in an e-mail. “You seem appalled when I told you I was getting my boobs done,” she wrote. “I’m not telling many people. I just want to feel sexy again so I decided to do it.”I wrote Jane back and told her that was not my reaction at all; that I was more curious than anything. I suggested maybe she was a little insecure about it, but she insisted she wasn’t. “You just seemed surprised,” she wrote back.Here’s the thing. It’s one of those things that, as soon as you begin looking for it, it seems to be everywhere. It’s like that summer I was 20, I worked at Keystone as a landscaper. It was this crazy job where they separated us into an all-male and all-female crew. My boss was this crotchety old Swiss woman who ran our little operation like a drill sergeant. While the guys took care of the resort’s real landscaping needs, it was up to the girls to plant all the flowers and do all the weeding. The planting part was actually kind of cool, but it only lasted a few weeks. The rest of the summer was spent sitting in flower bushes with what the Garden Nazi called “DD Diggers,” or dandelion diggers, these little metal scoop things we used to pull weeds out of the ground.I pulled so many DDs that, by the end of the summer, weeds seemed to be growing everywhere. I dreamed about weeds. I saw weeds everywhere I went. I’d be out to lunch on my day off, sitting on some beautiful patio overlooking Buffalo Mountain just cringing at the sight of all those DDs that hadn’t been pulled yet.Speaking of DDs, I began noticing those everywhere, too – double-D cup size that is. The very same night, I ran into my friend Jane at City Market. I went to yoga, where I rolled out my mat next to a girl I’d been told had the procedure done. We practice next to each other at least a few times a week, where we are half-naked and sweating through our clothes, but I’d never noticed until now. Now her full, perky boobs seemed to be staring me in the face, winking at me even. (By the by, if that sounds good to you boys, please come to my class! I get paid extra if there are more than 15 students, so come one, come all!)”I’m really open about it,” she said when I asked. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I love them.” She rattled off what the surgery cost and told me she’d write down the name of her doctor with the same nonchalance someone might offer when talking about a pair of new designer jeans.Could it really be that simple? I wonder about the pain, about the surgery that will be required down the road, not to mention the whole issue of whether you’re going to tell people and all the energy you may or may not expend wondering if they know.But what I really need to know, more than anything, is this: Is the consultation free?The Princess is too real to pretend she’s not superficial. E-mail your empty to firstname.lastname@example.org