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Boob Job Regrets

Boob Job Regrets

I got a boob job 15 years ago and it was maybe not the worst decision I’ve ever made but I absolutely regret it all the same and it seems I’m not alone. As reported on Health.com Victoria Beckham recently spoke to British Vogue about a letter she had written to her younger self to not “mess with your boobs” and to “celebrate what you’ve got”. She revealed she had her implants removed in 2014. I wish she had written that earlier.

I’ve still got mine and won’t be in a hurry to take them out even though they are probably past their use-by date (but according to my doctor if they’re not giving me trouble then do nothing) because I think I would end up with nothing but sagging skin if I did.

Like most of us I waited with anticipation for my boobs to appear. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And it never happened. I’m not saying I had small boobs. I had NO boobs. Nothing at all. Zero boob-age. And I hated it. I complained that my stomach stuck out more than my boobs did. I couldn’t wear bikini tops or halter neck dresses and I swear to God that there never, ever used to be the fabulous and extensive collection of padded lingerie that exists these days.

The only time I ever had cleavage to speak of was when I was pregnant or breast feeding and given they were a leaking, vein-bulging engorged mess I wasn’t too fond of them then either.

And despite my husband declaring that he loved them just the way they were I was determined to do something about it and after a recommendation from a friend went to a well known plastic surgeon in Toorak for a consultation. He took one look at my chest and commented “you have very little breast tissue”. Yeah, no shit. I don’t know if times have changed since that visit but he only had two sizes of implants on offer: big, and huge. I had gone in armed with photos of the breasts I wanted; a full B cup was all I was after. I didn’t want my breasts to enter the room before I did, I didn’t want them to be the centre of attention, I didn’t want them to define me as in “here comes Big Tits” but it seemed there were no manufacturers of “average size”. Most women who got implants already had average size and were looking for D cups. This surgeon even tried to talk me into going for the huge ones but I was adamant that I wanted the smallest ones possible. He swore he would make me a large B or a small C. Uh-huh.

And because I’m quite a small person in general he said the best way to do the procedure would be to have them inserted under the muscle rather than just under the skin as they would look much more natural but he warned I would likely have nerve damage and lose sensation. I didn’t care. Bring it on.

I had the surgery two weeks later. I told my boss AND my kids I was getting back surgery and I intended (somehow) to keep it a secret from everyone. I woke up bandaged and feeling like an elephant was sitting on my chest but otherwise OK. Little did I know it was because I was loaded with local anaesthetic and a ton of great drugs. The next few days were AGONY. I was constantly in tears and gobbled panadeine forte like lollies. I couldn’t shower myself, I couldn’t dress myself, I couldn’t even reach up to brush my hair. Thank God my husband had time off to look after me but I have to say he wasn’t quite as sympathetic as I had hoped given this was self-inflicted. And expensive.

I had to wear a compression bandage for two weeks and then finally I was able to go out and buy bras. In Double D. DOUBLE D. I’m 5’3″ and weighed 46kgs. They were huge. Gigantic. Enormous. And I was keeping it a secret? Hahaha. I endured plenty of stares and plenty of questions but I denied I’d had anything done.

And I did not love them. I didn’t feel better about myself at all. They were too big and seemed out of place on my body. Those bikini tops and halter neck dresses? Not a chance was I going to be flaunting these things, I was trying to HIDE them. They were the opposite of what I’d wanted which was just a handful.

They looked good but they felt fake. And I thought my husband was lying about loving them just the way they were and when I finally had some he would be all OVER them. He wasn’t. He didn’t care about my new acquisitions one little bit and when questioned said “I told you I loved them the way they were, you wanted these, not me”.

Ouch. And that nerve damage I was warned about? Well they are pretty much completely numb. I had no idea how much I would miss the sensation and eroticism that went with having them touched.

If you see a crazy lady in Myer going around grabbing bra cups before moving to the next rack to touch those too, that’s me trying to find one that’s NOT padded because the last thing I want is for them to be even bigger and it seems like the majority of bras are padded now. Why didn’t they do that 20 years ago??

And I passed down my genes to my daughter and although she continually complains about not having boobs either I think I have successfully warned her off ever getting surgery because of my regrets and I have tried (so far unsuccessfully) to convince 3 other women not to get theirs done despite what I’ve told them.

I should have stayed a proud member of the Itty Bitty Titty Club. There’s enough lingerie and bikini tops out there with built-in boobs that it just wasn’t necessary. I know that eventually the ones I have will need to be replaced and I’m going to have to go through it all again so think very, very carefully before you submit to that scalpel ladies.

 

 

 

Carolyn Murphy

Carolyn Murphy

Carolyn Murphy is a married mother of three and regularly provides us with recipes and strange but true stories about her life. When she’s not here, she can also be found on her website pinkpostitnote.com where all her other recipes are located!

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