Do you remember being, like, twelve and just willing your boobs to grow, grow, GROW? Or if you’re a guy, maybe you willed every girl in your sixth grade class’ boobs to grow. Do guys do that? Maybe you just wanted hair on your chest? IDK. I just know that, after years of watching my beautiful mother, and by the time middle school rolled around, I wanted my very own boobs and now! (I wonder if people are searching naughty things and finding this well-intentioned blog because of such frequent boob talk. Hey there, pervs, and sorry to disappoint.) Anyway, it takes time – puberty and such.
Well, you guys, Christmas came early, AND I defied the laws of puberty. My boobs are in. BAM! Just like that. All I had to do was drive to the Galleria and pick them up. (Twelve year old me is reeling.) It is the ultimate in bra stuffing, and I love having them back more than I thought I would. Plus, now Josh can get to second base again, and I don’t even have to be in the same room.
They don’t look exactly like mine did. I got confused and thought that I was getting two pair of prosthetics so I went into the fitting with the plan of getting a “church pair” and a “going out pair.” You know, so they could fit my mood and situation. But alas, I only got the one pair. After briefly thinking about going bigger, I decided to stick with my size. When the fitters asked me what size I previously wore, I told them a 34B. After much measuring and (shirtless) discussion, they told me that I had been wearing the wrong bra size and that I had been a 32D.
First of all, I assured them that I was not a D cup, but secondly, how could you know that without my boobs being here? They assured me that so many people are wearing the wrong size. So I went with it.
These falsies are a tad bigger and wider (or more spread out?) on my chest, so yeah, I don’t think I was a 32D. Ah well, I think I got a little too braggy to my husband anyway, and more than once, I wished that my mom had been here to laugh about the possibility of either of us being a D cup.
On a more serious note, I had a lot of good reasons (for me) that I decided against reconstruction, but my life was harder/sadder (I’m not really sure of the right word here.) without, at least, prosthetics. I definitely felt like a nine year old boy in my clothes. Plus, I wasn’t aware that boobs balance out even the tiniest pooch bellies until I didn’t have any. So I started to wear my husband’s tee shirts more and more, and well, I didn’t want to see where this slippery slope was headed. I did start to notice a decline in general niceties thrown my way. Things that, for my entire life, I have just taken for granted. You know, things like opening doors, hellos, big smiles, letting me cut in in traffic, eye contact and such. And it was ALL about having boobs (and natural hair helps too). Boobs = power. Let me tell you how I know.
My husband and I went to the mall to pick up my girly parts, and as I had developed a small bond with the girl who fitted me (re: I cried within ten minutes of meeting her), I asked her if I could “wear them out” — like they were new shoes and I wanted to stroll the mall in them. She obliged, and I did. Lunchtime Josh, then, had to restrain me from entering Sephora and pull me out of Lush, and we made our way to the food court. Josh was very hungry so he was a few steps ahead of me and made his way to the free samples guy first. He got his sample, and then the guy spotted me as I made my way over to his delicious tray of bite sized sandwiches.
“Oh, hey!” he said and looks to Josh and back to me. “Ladies first. Girl, you can have two to make up for it.” Huge grin.
Now, on a normal pre-cancer day, I would just smile back, take my extra free sample, and be on my way. People are nice.
But no one (that I don’t know) had been this nice to me in months! It was such a weird feeling. I got my boobs back, and ten minutes later, I’m a worthy person again. People are looking me in the eye and saying, “Giiiirl.” I wanted to just say, “Men!” and be done with it, but I know it goes deeper than that. It’s kind of rocking my world. In a good way. So yeah, in its simplest form, boobs = power.
Also, Katie (from the fittings) helped me to find a swimsuit that would accommodate my stuffies, and I’m excited to get back in the pool with the girls. I was not, however, excited to swimsuit shop with so many mirrors around and a stage-like pedestal centered among them. I would show you the cute coral colored one-piece that we picked out, but my thighs are begging me not to. It has been a hard four years on my body. Three pregnancies, two births, two surgeries, two surgical procedures, and chemo. Yikes. Before Penny, I hadn’t stayed a night in the hospital since I was born.
Aaaand to the gym I have been going. Between the cancer and the mirrors, I finally found the motivation, and I keep having the same thought. What took me so long? Daily babysitting for $50 a month! Sign. Me Up. And why didn’t you other mothers tell me about the miracle that is gym provided childcare? Unless you didn’t know. I have been working out, but if I wanted to, I could just go there and shower in peace for once! I could drop my kids off, sit in the lobby, and watch Big Brother while eating Cheetos if I wanted to. I’ve even figured out a way to have a date night with Josh at the gym. We could take a walk together (on side by side treadmills), hit up the vending machines, watch a movie in the lobby…hey, they even have a hot tub. We are set. Any girlfriends want to meet up for a coffee date and actually swap fun stories sans all the interruptions and bathroom breaks? I’ve got the perfect place. I’ll even wear my boobs.