Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Boobs

I stared at the picture of myself that was taken when my son was about six months old.  There are two things that hit me:  1) Man, I look tired, and 2) Man, I have boobs!  Big ones!  Like, Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue Big Ones! 

My gaze dropped to my present-day chest, and I sighed as I realized, for the millionth time, that they are gone.  Long gone.  And I never got to say goodbye.


Breastfeeding two babies killed them.  They shriveled up and died, leaving me dangerously close to Teenform training bra territory.

It’s a tough pill for me to swallow, and also for Husband, who woke up next to Dolly Parton one morning and what appeared to be a 13-year old boy the next.  Although he says I'm fine the way I am, God love him.

But what’s a girl to do?  Well, there are two roads to take:  1) Acceptance (“I am as God made me, sir”), or 2) get a boob job.  I have considered both options and even discussed the matter with friends.  Seems that a number of us are in the same boat.



The Boobylicious Snake Goddess Crete
Source: WikiMedia Commons

We want to be Boobylicious, but we don’t want to go under the knife, for practical reasons, as well as emotional ones.  First off, I am really not keen on having general anesthesia unless absolutely necessary.  With my luck, I’d be one of those freak death-by-anesthesia statistics.  Sorry kids, you lost your mom because she wanted bigger boobs.

Secondly, who has that kind of recovery time to give?  I, as well as most of my friends, have young kids at home, and we are all hanging by a thread, as it is.  Mama cannot be down and out, laid up in bed for weeks because of a boob job.  Just not practical.

And thirdly, I am kind of a weirdo germaphobe, and I cannot stand the thought of living with some foreign object implanted in my chest that could potentially leak, pop or whatever and give me cancer ten years down the road.  It’s just icky to me.  Remember how great everyone thought silicone implants were in the 70s?  Yeah, we know how that turned out.

Lastly, and possibly most importantly, what kind of message are we sending our daughters (and sons!) if we Mamas who are not Boobylicious (but fabulous in many other ways) all line up and march into the plastic surgeon’s office because we are not okay with ourselves the way we are? 

What seed would that plant in the mind of my sweet young daughter who someday might gaze despondently upon her own flat chest in the mirror?  That she is not good enough and boys and/or people won’t like her the way she is?

I think there comes a time in life where we have to understand and realize that there are no shortcuts or quick fixes for how we feel about ourselves and our bodies. 

And if you’ve had plastic surgery, a boob job or something else, please know that I am not judging you.  I am a plastic surgery alumnae myself (nose job in the 80s).  Thusly, I feel I can speak to the subject, and I am here to tell you that it did not solve all (or any, really) of my problems or make my life perfect in the blink of an IV.

I was still the same person before I went under the knife that I was afterwards.   Same girl filled with self-doubt, but with a slightly better looking honker.  See, I’m still insecure about it.

In the end, our bodies are just pieces of flesh that house our souls.  We wrestle with our souls and take it out on our boobs, thighs and tummies. But we’re not meant to be perfect, and it’s time we accept that. 

So, I’m issuing a call-to-arms for all the small-chested beauties out there to band together, hold hands and repeat after me:

I AM NOT BOOBYLICIOUS, BUT I AM BEAUTIFUL, SEXY AND SMART.

I AM NOT PERFECT, BUT I AM JUST FINE THE WAY I AM. 

THERE IS MORE TO ME THAN MY BOOBS, OR LACK THEREOF.

I AM HAPPY FOR MY FRIEND WHO IS BOOBYLICIOUS, BUT I WILL NOT DOUBT MYSELF OR MY CHOICES.  NOR WILL I JUDGE HER FOR HERS.

There, that feels good, doesn’t it? 

I am not Boobylicious, and I am definitely, sort-of okay with it.