We all have issues with our bodies. The worst part about getting older is having to eat less and exercise more in order to keep in relatively good shape. I fucking love eating but I also love being thin. Finding some balance will be a lifelong struggle.
My grandfather was a chef and most happy childhood memories revolved around some culinary event. 95% of my extended family is overweight, not grotesquely obese but I wouldn’t say anyone borders skinny or even trim. At 6’3” and 220lbs, I’m definitely the fittest family member. My dad, in particular, is diabetic, has heart disease and at his fattest, probably pushed 400lbs. He’s always been overweight. I remember seeing pictures of him at his fittest when he was playing soccer and basketball in high school and he always rocked the man-boobs. I inherited his fat guy genes.
Growing up with a tendency to put on weight and an awareness of my inner queen, I was hyper self-conscious about my physical appearance. If I didn’t get skinny, there was no hope of ever becoming a backup dancer for Gloria Estefan or a competitive jump roper.
In my 4th grade class play, all the boys had to change into our costumes together in the gym. As I tried to change as quickly as possible in a dim corner of the room, some asshole kid pointed at me and yelled, “HE’S GOT BOOBS!” Everyone turned and laughed. Put this on repeat every day for 6 weeks. Through junior high, this kid and others made fun of my weight and boy-boobs, don't even get me started on the fag jokes. At puberty, I grew about 2 feet and pretty much slimmed out although I could never quite tone up my chest, no matter how many pushups I did.
Fast forward to my 20’s. I managed to stay fairly thin even though I put on about 20lbs of “long term relationship” weight. Career success graduated me from cheap student food to regularly going to the best restaurants in town. Whatever, I was happy. I submitted to always having a little extra meat on my body.
The man boobs that haunted me from childhood still bothered me though. I spent thousands on personal trainers and did free weights in every which way possible (I can bench 200lbs). I could not grow enough muscle to tighten up my tits. With my shirt off I always felt like my torso looked like a sad clown face.
After spending some time on the internets, I discovered that I probably had a very common condition in men called gynecomastia, the technical term for man-boobs. Some men have a combination of tissue and fat that develops around the chest that cannot be exercised away. Jackpot! I’m gettin’ liposuction, bitches!
I went to the leading plastic surgeon in town and sure enough, I had extra tissue and fat that he could extract for a cool $5700. We spent almost an hour confronting my greatest insecurity. He grabbed at my boobs, pushed them up and down, slapped them side to side. I felt like a chicken cutlet under the heavy handed mallot of an angry Italian grandmother.
I booked the surgery on that first consultation and drove home with a very empty and sad feeling about succumbing to some mutilated version of who I would be in one month’s time. So many contradicting and complex thoughts ran through my head but I was committed to the surgery with my non-refundable $500 deposit.
“Please make the check out to West**** Plastic Surgery,” I said to the teller. “What? For you? You don’t need it.” “Thanks man, it’s for an old scar.”
Dude, get your nose out of my fucking business.
Next I ran off to pick up some prescriptions, various bandages, homeopathic supplements to help the forthcoming bruising and maxi pads with no wings. The doctor was adamant about no-wings maxi-pads to place over the incision area around my nipples. At the CVS checkout line, the cashier looked at my drugs, Neosporin, bandages and pads and said to me, “wow, your girlfriend musta got beat up real good.” Yeah, thanks dude.
“I fear my life will be over and I will never have lived it unfettered.” –Ani DiFranco
I woke up from surgery to a room full of nurses and my husband close by. Feeling extremely groggy and extremely high, the doctor schooled me on recovery procedures and scheduled a follow up, 5 weeks out. They wheeled me out to the car and I spent the rest of the day in a vegetative state on the couch.
The first two weeks post-op, I wore a tighter than skin tight vest with my wingless maxipads (no fucking wings!) covering my nipples to prevent chafing and protect the scars. I looked fucking ridiculous. There is nothing more emasculating than getting strung up like Marie Antoinette in a polyester corset with sanitary napkins slapped on your tits. That shit was so tight it pushed every ounce of fat on my torso down below the vest. I was muffin bottoming out of that shit.
If I get stuck in my apartment for more than a day without human interaction, I will go out of my fucking mind. 2 days post-op was my friend Meghan’s birthday. She had plans for an outdoor happy hour. I told almost no one about this procedure mostly because I’ve always been embarrassed about my physical condition. Whatever, I was on oxycodon, I could hang. Wrong! I live in Austin and this is June, temperatures are already pushing 100 degrees. A half-hour in and my fucking tits were sore and sweating into the maxi-pads under Marie Antoinette corset, under a button down shirt which kinda sorta hid my undergarments. Get me a scotch. Make it a double.
Second, unforeseen issue: I’m a hugger. I hug all of my friends when I see them. I told everyone that I had a cold and didn’t want to get them sick. That worked until it was time to go, I had to get home and put ice packs all over errrythang. Birthday girl didn’t care that I was sick, so she gave me a strong, tight, I-love-you-so-much-thanks-for-coming-and-I’m-kinda-drunk-so-imma-hug-you-extra-good-and-long hug. OH MY GOD BLOODY MUTHERFUCKING SHITBALLS OF HELLFIRE! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.
I closed my eyes and let go of all consciousness, got in the car and almost passed out.
What I would recommend to anyone considering any kind of liposuction is: do it in the winter. I drove to Houston for some meetings last week. Houston is sweaty and hot everyday of the whole goddamned year. It took every ounce of concentration to talk to clients wearing maxis, Marie Antoinette, an undershirt, a dress shirt, a tie and a wool suit. Awesome!
Cut to today, 2.5 weeks post-boob job. Marie Antoinette is in the trash and most of the bruising and swelling has gone down. Still wearing a spandexy vest for a few weeks but based on what I see getting out of the shower every morning, I have never looked better. I feel like I’ve slain one of the demons that possessed me for so long. I have a long way to go to reach acceptance and love of my body but this proactive step has gotten me to the end of the long tightrope of self-hatred.
I feel like I’m already turning heads and have received some “Did you lose weight, you look great" comments. Ironically, these comments come during the constant river of nipple sweat that is being sopped up by a fresh Always pad. I’m extra motivated to eat healthy and exercise because I have given myself this amazing gift. I refuse to fuck it up. At the end of the day, probably almost no one will notice. Doesn’t matter, I will know. The removal of 600cc makes me feel like I’ve lost 80lbs.
Moral of the story: Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all. If you can’t quite get there on your own, a boob job might help. Rock those new tits with pride. If you need me, I will be topless all summer and for every summer to come.
“So I’m beginning to see some problems
With the ongoing work of my mind
And I’ve got myself a new mantra
It says: ‘don’t forget to have a good time’
Don’t give the sellers of stuff
Power enough
To rob you of your grace
Love is all over the place
There’s nothing wrong with your face”
Well, maybe your tits. Thanks Ani.
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