(The Rack is a weekly Friday column by musician, babysitter, waitress and fit model Tammy.)
False alarm. I went to my consult, only to find out after sitting in the office for 30 minutes that the secretary I had spoken to on the phone had been mistaken when she said the doc accepted my insurance. So instead of a consultation about breast reduction, I went to the Container Store and bought a 32 oz. BPA-free Nalgene bottle so I can make my green smoothies portable. Not quite the life-changing Monday I had been hoping for.
Many of my conversations lately have centered around the reduction issue. Whether I like it or not, my large breasts are one of my identifying features, something people “can’t imagine” me without, so when I ask someone to do just that, there’s been a unanimously strong reaction. My girlfriends are largely supportive (no pun intended), since all it takes is a shopping trip or two with me to realize just how difficult and painful it can be when nothing fits right. My male friends (particularly of the heterosexual variety) are a different story.
One friend whined. He got teary-eyed. He tried to bribe me to “save them.” Another warned me that the scars would be ugly, and told me I was “wasting a gift from God.”
Another asked if I was prepared for less attention. “Have you ever walked through a room as just any old girl with average breasts? Are you ready to get lumped in with the rest of them?”
Is that what I’m about to do?
Of course I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s like to have “average” size breasts . . . mine have been large since the beginning of high school. All I can imagine is that first post-op shopping trip, when I pick out a bikini top in a department store or Victoria’s Secret, the triangle kind . . . and it fits. Or a flowy shirt. Or a dress in my pants size that I don’t have to get tailored.
As I write this I feel a wave of guilt. This blog is full of positivity, bras that fit, clothes that work, women who rock . . . and I’m a coward who can’t take the heat anymore, throwing in the towel, downsizing my blessed bosom because I’d rather be ordinary. The minute I realized reduction was an option, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders . . . but why do I feel like such a traitor?