Friday, January 27, 2012

Buying into Boobs

I bought a pair of fake boobs.  Not the full, round, porn-star size--just the silicone inserts designed to make your boobs look like they once did.

Now, I had grandiose hopes for these quarter-boobs because when I lost a lot of weight, my bras not only became too big, my boobs took a dive, if you know what I mean, and my breasts were about the only thing I liked about my body prior to my massive change.  My boobs were not only bigger, they were...well, yeah.  All that.  For once, I had agreed with my husband that a part of my Physiognomy was pretty damn good, when on the whole, I tended to disagree with his positive assessment of me.

Don't get me wrong.  Since the weight loss, there has been no lack of amore in any area, and my husband would be appalled that I ordered fakies and tried to hide the purchase.  Since I am now admitting to the entire world that I have succumbed to our inane culture that puts boobs at the forefront of sexiness--at least in Sports Illustrated--I figure this proclamation of guilt is enough penance for the crime.  Then again, since my husband doesn't read my blog, I know I still will feel I have committed a sin of omission if I don't confess.  I can do this in several ways, the funniest by allowing him to discover my secret when we are being the most intimate.  "I can't believe you bought those!"  I'm betting both  my fake boobies that is what he'll say, followed by a chastisement about wasting money, to which I would usually respond, "Don't worry. I'll sell them on eBay."  But I doubt that is an option in this case.

The most pathetic part of trying on the boobs came with my realization that I was really stuffing my bra in the same way middle school and even some elementary school aged kids used to do with socks or paper towels.  This was before the current era of push-up and padded bras for twelve-year-olds.  In my day, girls who stuffed were publicly humiliated for doing so, especially if the ingredients happened to fall out.  Now, it's acceptable and encouraged to go for the busto at any life stage, and women over the age of consent who get boob jobs don't seem a bit embarrassed by the discovery.

We women are conditioned at an early age to believe our boobs are pretty important.  I recall in fifth grade, for example, one of the boys I had gone to school with since Kindergarten started singing, "You got them got them," to no tune or no one in particular, but so everyone could hear him.  So I started to wonder, "Have I got those boobies?"  I wore a training bra, but did that count?  Then there was my eighth-grade classmate who dated a not-so-great looking girl just because she had big ones. I thought mine were pretty big at the time, but apparently, they weren't.  I was also pretty shy and had strict parents, so dating anyone at the time was out of the question anyway. 

I could never pay for a real boob job, not only because I couldn't afford it, but because I would feel guilty about spending $10,000+ when there are people starving to death.  Besides that, women often get boob inflations to raise self esteem.  Do I really want my self esteem resting on an ample chest?  Don't get me wrong--I am not condemning anyone who reaches for that metaphorical basketball, and I am certainly not talking about breast cancer survivors.  I'm just saying for me, implants wouldn't be an option unless I had a mastectomy.  But then, I suspect boobs would be only one of my worries.  (Insert here a prayer for all people with cancer and serious illness.)  Besides that, my husband be seriously upset if I took that step towards even the basketball court.

So, after not much consideration, I've decided I will let my husband figure out the hard way that his wife has experienced yet another moment of insanity.  I will leave my silicone on the sink so everyone can have a good laugh.  And I will be appalled at the search terms which bring up this post.
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