Family
I Had Plastic Surgery. Here's What Happened
Bottom line: I love the way my chest looks.
Stocksy, 2
I loved nursing my three children. But what I didn’t love was the effect nursing had on my body, my boobs to be specific. With each baby the raisins shrank and sank. By the time I was 35, I felt unsexy, self-conscious, insecure and hated wearing a bikini or a clingy T-shirt.
So, when my third and last child moved onto solids, I visited a plastic surgeon, and said: “I’d like my old boobs back please.”
Body image mattered to me. With the insertion of two silicone pouches, each about the size of a chicken fillet, I felt womanly again. Sexy. Confident. I had curves and cleavage. I didn’t hate looking in the mirror. I went bikini shopping. At 37, I was a changed woman.
I come from a big boob family. Both my mother and my middle sister had breast reductions. I’m not sure what happened with me, but a little silicone evened the scales. While I was thrilled with my new boobs, I didn’t like that they made me feel superficial. While looking good makes me feel better, I am a lot more than just my bra size.
I grew up in a household where looks mattered. When I started dating my first husband, I was 17, he was 21. “He has a weak chin,” my mother proclaimed in the car. “He’s not sexy.” Years later when we had our first child, my mother came to visit. She peered into the crib, where my darling two-week-old daughter was lying and said, “She has her father’s chin.”
Chin, legs, hair, lips — nothing escaped my mother’s critical eye. Another time I was in our building’s elevator with my mother and my youngest daughter, then age 11. “You have nice lips Alice, sensual lips,” my mother complemented. “Not like your mother’s. Hers are a little thin.” Alice laughed nervously, not knowing what to say.
“Thanks Ma,” I said, as I watched the elevator buttons light up, wanting to be anywhere but in that confined airless space. And my mother wondered why I moved across an ocean to England.
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My mother wasn’t just focused on other peoples’ looks. She had her first facelift in her 40s, before the surgery was perfected. I remember going into her bedroom after school. She was in bed wearing dark glasses. Her face was bruised and bandaged. I was shocked and a little horrified. Her chin was too pointy, and she needed to get it corrected. Decades later when she was 73, she decided to have another facelift. My father had recently died. “I’m not ready to close up shop, Willa.” She went on to have a fling with a much younger married man. Then she got a boyfriend who was in his 80s. She thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. I’m not sure about the gorgeous part, but he did drop dead at 91. Being sexy and looking good mattered to my mother, and so whether by nature or nurture, it mattered to me too.
Not only was I harsh on myself — vain Willa — but I felt others judged me negatively, as well — plastic surgery, plastic person.
My eldest sister, who had nice breasts unaffected by nursing said,” Why would you do that? Tinker with your body?” Her husband, while never addressing the topic directly, would invariably bring up women who had breast augmentation into every conversation. He loved watching me squirm and change the subject.
“What do you think of those boobs, Willa? They start at her neck. Think they’re real?” And then he’d laugh loudly.
I would force a small haha. I wish I had had the confidence to welcome that elephant into the tent. “I don’t know about that woman Mark, but I love my new breasts. Hopefully, she loves hers, too.”
I have a friend who I’m pretty sure suspects my boobs have had some help but instead of asking about it directly, she’ll drop in comments like… “Well, you can fill this dress out, but it would look horrible on flat-chested me.” The more she makes these pointed comments, the less inclined I am to admit a word.
The late comedian Joan Rivers tried to take the stigma out of plastic surgery. In an interview with Barbara Walters, Rivers said, “I just want women to know: It’s ok — do it,” as long as it makes you feel better about your reflection. Plastic surgery is immensely popular so why would I be ashamed about it? In Brazil, a plastic surgery capital of the world, people openly discuss what they’ve done. It’s not a sign of vanity, it’s a sign of healthy self-care, status, as well as personal pride.
While some people are against the very idea of plastic surgery, others might be resentful that for whatever reason, money or mindset, they can’t or won’t get it done. But I say, to each his own.
Don’t judge. If it helps people feel better about themselves, who am I to say anything? And where does one draw the line? Is it okay to color your hair, whiten your teeth, get Botox? Why should women be shamed for resorting to plastic surgery? Or, shamed for letting ourselves age naturally?
At 64, I do care a lot less about what other people think. I know that I’m not a shallow person. I also am out in the world. I have a podcast interviewing authors, I mentor high school students from low-income backgrounds, and I do volunteer work in my community. I care about looking good, feeling good and doing good.
The New Yorker recently published an article titled “Our Plastic Surgery Nightmare: As cosmetic procedures become both more invisible and more extreme, our connection to reality is fraying.”
I agree with a lot of what the author says. With the power of social media and celebrity culture, an impossible beauty standard is being set for young girls. But the article didn’t speak to me about me. I don’t follow celebrity culture. I have no interest in Kardashian anti-aging secrets. I am just trying to keep up with the status quo; I want to look like what I used to — by getting my old boobs back.
My husband seems to have forgotten altogether. The other day I asked him what he thought about my plastic surgery. He looked momentarily confused, and then said sincerely, “What plastic surgery?” And that, my friends, is how all of us should be.
Would YOU ever have plastic surgery? Let us know in the comments below.
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