The Implant Decision

Getting a ‘Boob Job’ Raises Some Difficult Psychological, Sociological, Physical, Sexual, and Aesthetic Questions; One Woman Tells About Making Her Decision

By Barbara Anderson

Being flat-chested occupies my daily thoughts. It anchors on my self-confidence.

I have refused to swim for fear of wearing a bathing suit. I didn't buy the perfect dress knowing that Wonderbra couldn't don the dress with me. I laughed at small-breasted-women jokes in social discomfort. I have been embarrassed to perform a dance on stage thinking I look like a 12-year-old. I have often cringed in the moments before a lover discovered my secret.

If I sound like I feel sorry for myself, good. I feel sorry for myself. Most damaging of all has got to be my anatomical math: No boobs equals no womanhood.

The immediate solution...a boob job. The Baywatching-cleavage-enhancing-male-enticing saline alternative for real breasts. I have spent seven years contemplating this socio-physio-sexual debate, but body alteration is not a small decision by any means.

Looking in the mirror one much-awaited morning during my 12th year, I realized that the glory day had come. I was entering the stage my girlfriends and I had talked about for countless hours at slumber parties. Finally, the almighty entrance into womanhood–well, aside from menarche, which later we all find out wasn't anything like its hype.... My breasts were growing! Of course this was back in grade school, and I assumed this to be the beginning of a descending alphabetical trend in bra sizes. No such luck. By the end of junior high I barely filled my 32A bras, and since then the only thing that's changed has been the introduction of one of my best friends, Wonderbra.

Not even a 32A; that was all my womanhood had to offer.

So here I am in a plastic surgeon's waiting room for my consultation on breast augmentation, as they call a boob job. Even though I have done my research for this appointment, I feel butterflies in my stomach as if he was going to ask me to break out in song and dance. I have been in the surgeon's office before to watch the instructional breast augmentation video. Now I’m back to meet the surgeon for a more serious discussion.

I don't know what to expect. I keep visualizing the scene from "Singles" in which Bridget Fonda's character is staring at the computer image of her possible breast size and enlarges the blue, digitally-lined breast to beyond cup-size Pamela Lee.

I waited for the surgeon in a small, sterile room with a thin, blue paper shirt on. The first time I’m to meet this man he’s going to see my bare chest. I’m somewhat confused by this method of initiation, but what the hell. I figure he's seen enough boobage in his day; mine won't shock him.

As I waited, I thought of my years of preoccupation and self-hate of my small breasts and the private thoughts that had preceded this point in time. Of course I know women come in different sizes; looks don't matter; we all have different assets and that makes us unique; and breasts don't really equal womanhood. And I am smart enough to know that all of that is bullshit. Those are anecdotes that either my mother or women who aren't in my predicament say.

Trust me, I am the most flat-chested woman I know. I boil at the platitudes of people who even attempt to claim they understand. Even a recent New Times article about trying on bras referenced the cup-size measuring test of holding a pencil under the crease of the boob. I'd be lucky if I could hold a Post-it note under mine.

For years I have contemplated the morality of accepting yourself vs. bettering your physical appearance to boost confidence. I asked myself all the questions. Am I giving in to male dominance by trying to fit into an ideal woman? Am I going to be able to handle knowing a part of me is fake? Will people look at me as someone who is superficial or weak? Am I superficial or weak? Is vanity worth an intrusive surgery? Is vanity worth $4,000?

In addition to the moral questions, there are a lot of health risks involved as well. I read pamphlets, websites, and books on all of my concerns. I wondered about the ability to breast-feed, the scarring, the surgery complications, the detection of breast cancer, the risks of leaks, and recovery time.

I know what you're thinking. You see the image of the intellectually challenged exhibitionist with two way-oversized bazongas. This is the image I often see myself. Sorry. I am not a bimbo. I have no desire to be huge. I just want to look like I finished puberty, for Pete's sake.

Yet, that's the icon image of boob jobs. That is why when I talk of my big plans some people initially react with a partially repulsed expression, and I don't blame them.

Friends' reactions entertain me so much that now I am starting to tell people I want a boob job just to see their reactions. My sister, who's opinion I fully respect, gave this disheartened response, grieving that I actually thought I needed to change my body: "Do you really think you need that?" I expected her nurturing response. She just wants me to love myself the way I am.

Then came my best friend Michelle's response, "Oh my God! That is so cool. Can I throw a bra party after for you? ’Cause your going to need new bras.... I bet you won't be able to stop yourself from touching them!" Every time I tell Michelle my life worries, she always reaffirms why she is my best friend.

Oddly enough, I think women really do understand. They recognize the importance of the immortal breast.

Of the few men I have told, most have smiled big and with wide eyes ask, "Re-e-eally?" And in the worst position of all of this is my boyfriend. He's a jerk if he wants me to get them because he doesn't love me the way I am, and he's a jerk if he doesn't want me to get them because he's insensitive to my emotions. It's a Catch-22 for him. I'm sure big boobs fascinate him–he is a guy, after all. However, he gets to the heart of the matter the best: "If it gives you more confidence, then it will be worth it."

Of everyone, I think he sees most directly how it affects my confidence. He knows I don't wear certain clothes, and he's seen my outgoing personality waffle in times of intimacy. It's not "for him"; the boob job is an idea that I've been contemplating long before meeting him.

The most common negative response comes from people who think that breast implants are a beauty dilemma for me. If I wanted to be prettier, I'd get a makeover. The decision to go through with it is based on issues more personally substantial than arrogant. It is wanting to be womanly. I feel attractive. I think I'm pretty. My body is in good shape. The idea is more profound than narcissism. I am a flat-chested woman who every day deals with messages from friends, media, culture, and myself that place value on breast size.

Many incidents pushed me back and forth across the "just do it" line. The most recent happened in the New Times newsroom. A co-worker was asking questions from one of those "let's get to know each other" books. The question was "What one thing brings you most comfort that you can hold in your hand?" His answer, "My girlfriend's breast." After going through the lecture of how women shouldn't be segmented like that and how he should want to hold his entire girlfriend, I saw a light bulb.

That conversation was a turning point. See, I want my boyfriend to be able to say that. The important thing is not that I want my boyfriend to find comfort in my breast, but rather I want to provide that feeling. It is not about someone else lusting after my boobs; it's about me having lustworthy breasts. I want them for myself, boyfriend or no boyfriend.

The surgeon comes in and, after apologizing for being late, introduces himself and explains how he’s going to look at my anatomy mainly for symmetry and positioning. After that, I put my padded bra and shirt back on and went to his office. He explained the whole thing to me. What it will realistically do for me (basically the natural shape will be enhance in volume), what I can expect scarwise, how much, the risks, the whole gamut. He shows me before and after pictures. And then he fields my questions. No computer simulator, though–I’m disappointed.

The pictures show the scarring, and what the surgeon considers to be serious, I think is minor. The surgery has some inherent risks, including the risk of death due to complications. I don't think boobs are worth dying for, but the risk is minimal. Because the implant is under the pec muscle, it is actually easier for mammograms to detect breast cancer after the surgery. (of everything, this is my biggest concern–like I said, not worth dying for–and this news was a huge selling point). He explains that saline, unlike silicone, is absorbed naturally in the body and will deflate the sac, signifying a leak has occurred. Postsurgery is three days invalid and three weeks sedentary, depending on how it all goes.

If I put health risks on one side of a scale–you know, those Libra scale-of-justice types–and emotional benefits on the other, benefits tip the scale.

The surgeon does breast augmentations one to two times a week. There are three other plastic surgeons in San Luis Obispo. Maybe a portion of my surgeon's patients are from out of the area, but it doesn't take much to do the math and realize there are lots of women running around SLO County with fake boobs. After hearing that, I am no longer buying the story of men who claim they can tell if boobs are fake from first glance walking down the street.

The surgeon also says that most of the women who get breast implants are physically active, realistic women, who just want to improve the part of their body they have no control over. Hearing that shattered the whole bimbo image.

So as the consultation wraps up, I’m ready to stay the extra three hours and have my new boobs put in right then. However, I will need to schedule a bit for recovery time–and save up the money, too. Of course, I also need to do more research before making the final decision.

The plight of this poor, flat woman is not over. I have recently simply accepted the fact that I am bothered by my chest size; whether or not I should be is no longer relevant. I wish I was more accepting of my boobs, but I don't think lifetime therapy will change that. Implants may be a viable confidence enhancer for me.

I haven't got concrete answers to all my questions, but I do know that for the confidence I would gain, it's got to be worth a shot. Quite honestly, I would rather be the woman with fake boobs than the woman with no boobs any day.

Still, when push comes to scalpel, will I do it? I don't know just yet. But I'll let you know if I do.

Barbara Anderson is a New Times editorial assistant and Cal Poly lecturer.