A friend of mine recently had her breasts “upsized,” and she’s determined that no one will ever know they’re not natural. Okay, babe. Love ya, but we need a tiny reality check here. You’re 50. You weigh 103 pounds, and you’re a size 2 (and we’re still friends, which shows what a secure woman I am. Yeah, no. But you’re hysterically funny, so I overlook my middle-age body envy and love you anyway). They’re a full, bosomy D cup, AND the good doc placed them up around your clavicles. Repeat after me. NO ONE is going to believe they’re real.
Having spent several years in beauty retail, I’ve concluded that cosmetic surgery is the final taboo. A society that shares (OMG, do we share) every minute detail of our lives on Facebook and Twitter, we are inexplicably reluctant to admit to having “work done.” We freely admit to dropping out of college to join a cult, or to repeated stints in rehab, or to coming out of the closet after 2 marriages and 3 kids as we post about leaving our husband for our maid of honor. But Botox?? THAT stays firmly tucked away on a tiny appointment card, securely stashed in our wallets where even best friends will never see it.
Personally, I think you should do whatever the heck you want and can afford (unless you’re Cat Woman. For the love of God, somebody STOP HER.) But please stop trying to pretend that your perky, perfectly symmetrical, 50-year-old breasts are natural. I call this “God loves me more than He love you” syndrome. Why else would God give YOU those and stick ME with these two beagle ears on a stick? That’s just mean. And since the Bible repeatedly tell us God is a loving deity, I have to assume you intervened and gave the Big Guy a little creative assistance.
For those of you who occasionally look at a woman and wonder, a couple of quick telltale signs. If her forehead is smooth as a baby’s bottom and doesn’t move when she’s talking, she’s a Botox’er. If she has a perfectly flat belly after 3 kids and her idea of exercise is opening a second bottle of wine, she’s been hoovered by a lipo-vac. If she’s a size 0, but has perfect, size D breasts that don’t fall to the side when she’s sunbathing, those puppies were a birthday present.
In short, if you look like an upside-down Weeble, with zero percent body fat EXCEPT for two large melons stuck to your chest, give it up. Not even your preschool grandchildren are buying the “natural” argument. Stop pretending you were divinely chosen to be prettier, thinner, or younger looking than the rest of us in your age bracket. If you’ve had it nipped, tucked, sucked, injected, enhanced or hoovered, consider sharing THAT if we ask. Even if we choose a different path, our self-esteem will remain intact knowing that we didn’t somehow draw the beauty short straw.
And lest you think I’m holding out, I’ll go first. When I hit 50, I had an upper and lower blepharoplasty. In short, an “eye job.” For years I was unhappy with the drooping of my upper eyelids and the constant puffiness underneath that no amount of expensive eye creams would deflate.
Admittedly, there was a tiny part of me that hoped the doc would take one look at me and announce, “You?? You look great. Come back in a few years.” That faint hope went south on a luge when he peered over at me and said, “Are you sure you don’t want a full forehead lift? We could get a lot more of that sagging.” Awesome. Nope, I replied. I’m not going for “stunned.” Just more rested. Eyes only, doc.
In hindsight, I probably should’ve read the fine print under “Healing.” Specifically, how long it takes. When doc said I’d be able to wear makeup and go out within a week or so, he didn‘t say I would still look like I’d gone head first through a car windshield. (I attended a friend’s wedding shortly after the surgery wearing giant, oversize black sunglasses, feeling all Audrey Hepburn. Later photos revealed a stronger resemblance to Snookie. Epic vanity fail.) But several weeks later, when all was finally over and healed, I looked, well…rested. I loved it.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. And if you ever ask, I’ll give you the name of my doctor.