Damn the Torpedoes – My Breast Adventures with Plastic Surgery

 

plastic surgery

I USED TO keep my breasts in a drawer. No it’s not quite what you think…I’ll explain. At twenty-five, drawn in by the glamorous allure, I decided on a modeling career. Back then I had to lie about my age to get any work since at that advanced stage in my life I was already considered ‘over the hill’.

It didn’t take long for the allure to wear off. From my knobby knees to  my small chest to the last, die-hard pimply remains of teenage acne, I continually inspected and criticizing every inch of my skimpy physique. At the same time, for the purpose of comparison I would seriously peek at the other models while we were changing for our next shot.

In the beginning the self esteem highs I got when I saw myself in print only marginally quelched the extreme terror and feelings of not being good enough that I experienced when in front of the camera.

The bomb fell when Haley, my agent announced “You look like a Biafran,you need to lift some weights or something”. I was devastated, she also asked me if I was anorexic. Oh, if only looks could kill…

Apparently,  skinny was not ‘in’ that year, I was about fifteen years ahead of my time.plastic surgery

Little did my evil agent know that I could eat anyone under the table and still remain skimpy-dee-doo-dah. Not quite the same now but I know I’d still make her sick if she saw me. Hah!

Haley’s words did leave their mark and I my self-esteem took a nose dive. I decided that, since gaining weight was physically impossible for me, a wee breast augmentation was in order.

I went under the knife and jumped nearly two cup sizes. The thrill soon wore off as I found myself apologizing for my scars to the men I was intimate with. How was I to know that my new breasts didn’t change the way they felt about me, they only changed the way I felt about myself.

So twelve years and four different sets of implants later I marched off to the nearest plastic surgeon, my mother in tow for moral support. Damn the torpedoes, I was done with being under construction.

The plastic surgeon had done his very best to dissuade me from removing the two intruders from my chest, “Why not get smaller ones instead?” the good doctor urged. No such luck, bubba, I wanted those puppies OUT! I yearned to be Me again.

As I lay, fully conscious on the OR table, the surgeon quipped “Would you like to keep them”. “As a matter of fact, yes, I would, wrap ‘em up, please”, I replied triumphantly.plastic surgery

Later that I bought my mom a nice lunch, myself a very expensive, lacy little French bra, went home and put my breasts in a drawer.

Once a while I’d take them out and handle them, remembering how hard I had been on myself in my twenties. Then one day I pitched them into the garbage, the knowing had seeped into my every cell that I love myself now more than ever before, knobby knees and all. I am perfect, just the way I am.

It’s not that I am adverse to plastic surgery, I think it’s a huge blessing for anyone who chooses it… for the right reason. Choose it only because you feel it will enhance your already perfect self, not because you have allowed someone’s judgement to knock your self-esteem off its perch.

I still check out the other gals in the changing room at the gym, only this time, it’s not for comparison’s sake, it’s in admiration of their beauty.

 

Esmée SJplastic surgery