My first fake boob

     Self-acceptance is the key to happiness. 

Thirteen years ago this week I found myself flipping through the pages of a breast implant catalog, ironically about the size of a Victoria’s Secret Catalog, marveling at the array of shapes available. Who knew there were so many? Round, oval, teardrop and, of course, every size imaginable. I glanced down at my soon-to-be-removed double D’s and it was hard for me to envision a new look. Much like when my breast surgeon had flipped through her day planner and asked, “How’s next Thursday for your mastectomy?” as though I were making a hair appointment, though she was not insensitive at all, this entire experience felt surreal. I wanted to say, "Sorry, but next Thursday's not going to work. I'd planned on waking up, going to school, and continuing life as I know it."

My phone buzzed. 

Text from my sister: How’d it go w plastic surgeon? 

Me: Still here – picking out new boobs from catalog. 

She: haha 

Me: Not kidding – have to order them. Thinking about getting boob tattoo Made in Taiwan. 

She: Hahaha 

No matter your circumstances, a sense of humor is essential. In all seriousness, I was definitely downsizing to a C like my teen idol, Madonna, and that’s when I remembered feeling my first fake boob. 

At seventeen I started working in a lingerie and swimsuit shop near Vassar College. This was in the days long before Victoria’s Secret was a mall staple. No garish colors or prints, this shop featured muted shades with names like ecru, buff, and opal and the fabrics were creamy silks and softly woven lace. From the moment I walked in amid the finely stitched pieces and faint scent of lavender, I felt like I was in a museum of femininity, though the swimsuits were too matronly for my taste. As I followed the owner, Barbara, who was the epitome of elegance, through the store my first day, I fingered a tiny, handwritten price tag attached with a tiny gold pin, and when I saw the price my eyes widened. Who in late 1980's Poughkeepsie pays $68 for a camisole? (Vassar girls, my mother later told me.) I quickly realized I had much to learn. I didn’t know what tap pants were, envisioning tap dancers and wondering why they sell them there, and while I recognized a teddy, until then I’d had no idea it had a name. 

She showed me a room in the back where she said she met with “private clients.” She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask, too busy mentally shopping for fancy lingerie that a)Even with my discount I couldn’t afford, and b) I had nobody for whom to wear. 

Occasionally somber-faced women came in and headed straight to the back, barely glancing my way. I wasn’t overly curious though. I liked waiting on customers, eager to showcase my new knowledge that you wear a nude-colored bra, not white, under white shirts. When the men came in I imagined a future husband or lover picking out expensive lingerie for me someday, though it would have depressed me to know then that when I did marry, my husband would only ever bring me a cheap thong with the logo of his brother’s flooring business on it and some pun about “laying it right.” Good riddance there.

One day I noticed a bathing suit had been left in the private fitting room. Then I did a double take. The left side was fully popped out like a ghost boob was filling it while the right side hung limply. I squeezed it and sure enough there was something in the cup. I felt around inside and there was a flap under which I could feel something cool and rubbery which I removed and studied. It looked like a chicken cutlet. I stared down at my own chest trying to envision one real boob and the other side flat, with one of these stuffed into a pocket inside my bra. None of my bikini tops would successfully pull off this look. Did having fake boobs mean you have to wear matronly one-piece swimsuits with two inch wide straps? 

As I brought my attention back to the implant catalog I realized they looked just like the prosthetics, the only difference being that these would be surgically implanted rather than stuffed into the pockets of bathing suits and bras. Thank God for modern medicine and plastic surgeons! 

I can honestly say I love my new boobs. I can wear all sorts of tiny little tops and I haven’t worn a bra in thirteen years. I do resent people that ask me or anyone well-built if their boobs are real. A former boyfriend had this to say about the topic, “Babe, if you can see them and touch them, they’re real.” With that in mind, they’re real, and they’re spectacular!