Tuesday, 26 January 2016

Rosie Tits: I want to be Sporty Spice not Posh Spice



When you tell people you're getting a breast reduction, you get all sorts of advice. Women, literally, crawl out of the woodwork to tell you they've had one, their aunty had one, or their best friend had one after high school.

To a person, I've never heard "I hate the way they look" after surgery. Before was always worse.

I mean, it's understandable. You've got to really hate your boobs to endure four hours of surgery. And you have to have faith that the surgeon who accepts your case doesn't disappoint. You don't want to wake up expecting you'll look like Charleze Theron, and you end up looking like Granny Clampett.

It takes a lot of guts to get a breast reduction; it's not for sissies.

And no chicken to my knowledge has ever said, "take the leg, leave the breast." I don't know why I said that, it just seemed funny to me.

There is a lot of soul searching that goes into the process but when you finally commit, you wonder why it took 25 years.

The burning question is this: how small or how big do you want them? You only have one chance, so it's important to get it right. Lots of women don't do the Full Monty because it requires more reconstruction to save the nipple. If the surgeon goes too small, it chokes off the blood supply to the nipple, it dies, and you have to find a tiny casket for it, an R&B group who will be available at the last moment and a minister who will set the right tone at the memorial.

"Ah, lefty, we knew you well. You were a good sport all these years. Righty, you were simply too big for your britches."

The other option, if you want to really want to go smaller, is to simply take off the nipples and make new fake ones. Doctors might be good at this, but no one has ever admitted, to me at least, that she chose permanent pasties over the real McCoys.

I say "who cares?"

The draw back to actual nipple removal is you never have that feeling again. You know, the Marvin Gaye, "sexual feeling" again. That feeling you first felt as a tween in the shower after watching a Kanye West video.

Truth be told, I haven't had that feeling for a while now. It's like what happens when you put a really nice top in the dryer instead of paying the ten bucks to go to the dry cleaner. It's just never the same again when the elastic's gone out of it.

You also have to make sure your boobs fit your body. I have a German-Scottish affair, which means big hips, so if I were to go too small, I would look like a bowling pin. I also have the shoulders of a six-year-old.

So my surgeon is going to have to make some sort of compromise. I don't want Papa Bear Boobs, but I don't want Baby Bear Boobs, either. Mama Bear boobs would be just right.

Here's my bottom line.

I dream of sports boobs, the ones that fit into a sports bra, the ones that don't feel like I've had to squish them into tube socks. At age 60, which I will be, I want to be able to run and jump. I want to play tennis again without fear of blacking out my eyes. I want to play golf without having to stand four feet from the ball.

I don't really give a rat's ass about what I'm going to look like in a tube top or a strapless dress cause I will never wear those. I'm Sporty Spice not Posh Spice.

The other problem for girls like me, the women Sarah Silverman describes as having "heavy Jewish breasts" is that our boobs are very dense, a doctor's term explaining why he missed the breast cancer because he couldn't see it. (It must be tough being a radiologist looking at a dense breast which might be akin to being forced to watch a Stephen Sondheim musical where all kinds of shit happens in the dense forest, shit that you're not expecting. Spoiler alert, Cinderella actually leaves Prince Charming!)

Back in the old days, when my boobs weren't nearly as large and meaty, I was on the university rowing team. Even back then, as skinny as I was, I had trouble running because I felt like my bra was like a slingshot full of gravel. So that's something I'm going to discuss with my doctor.

I'm not planning to run a marathon. I'm not crazy. I'm not signing up for Survivor. I just want to be active and not dragged down by dead weight.

I can dream, I can hope, but ultimately it's up to the person wielding the scalpel.

And with that image in my brain, I just peed myself.



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