When I was in my late 40s, I decided to get my breasts lifted. I didn’t want them bigger. Just higher. Back up where the good Lord put them before gravity and age began to coax them closer to my naval than my clavicles. There’s just something about looking in the mirror every morning to two sad beagle ears attached to your upper torso that screams “National Geographic, the Pictorial Edition.” Not to mention that most of my friends had implants or lifts 10 years earlier, so even women older than me had younger-looking bodies because they were, well, perky, and I looked more like a 60s love child that hadn’t worn a bra since puberty.
So armed with photos of young starlets and their “up to there” breasts, I made an appointment with a well-recognized plastic surgeon to discuss my options. I entered his plush office, with its thick carpet and quietly cascading waterfall in the corner, where his impossibly perfect receptionist guided me back to the softly lit exam room (for which I would thank God in the next half hour), and she flashed me a bright smile as she instructed me to remove my shirt and bra, and wait for the doctor.
20 minutes later, Doc walks in (is it me, or do they all look 12 years old??) introduces himself and, obviously not into foreplay, reaches over and lifts one breast, checking for “bounce.” (Say hello to the point, you arrogant puppy. If they still BOUNCED, I wouldn’t be here), then lets it go, where it promptly slams back down onto my chest like a wrecking ball taking out a high rise. Then he sticks a piece of blue litmus-type paper underneath one, waits several seconds, and pulls the paper out to check for skin-on-skin contact, which would show up as “light moisture.” The paper looked like a Bounty Quicker Picker Upper. By now, my self-esteem has fled the building (presumably looking for the closest bar, which was where I was headed as soon as I could find my bra.) Then he stuck a large piece of white paper underneath both breasts and traced them. The final picture looked like two carrots lying on a table. I was so mortified by then, I hardly noticed the up close and personal Polaroids that he took. One for each carrot. Oh. My. God.
When he finally finished his exam, I stammered out that I’d read about a procedure where they could go in from the armpit and pull the ligaments up, which was less invasive and left fewer scars. Without missing a beat, he replied, “That would work if you’d come in 10 years ago. You’re way past that now,” at which point he calmly left the room, with instructions to make an appointment on my way out. Yeah, no. I scrambled into my clothes and headed home like an old plow horse to the barn. When I explained why I was so upset, Kenny asked, “Why do you even want to do this?? Why don’t you just wear one of those shove-em-up bras?” I explained that that only worked until I took the bra off, then everybody would know what they really looked like.
“Who the hell is EVERYBODY??” he choked out. “How many people are you thinking will be in the room whenever you take your bra off?” Well, after today, I would say nobody. Ever.
I ultimately decided the lift was not for me. My boobs and I would grow old together, and when I die, Kenny knows to bury me in my best sports bra. $85 a pop and virtually guaranteed to hold the sisters in place long enough for friends to sigh, “And she was so young.”