Tomorrow morning I'm going to see a lactation consultant. I had a breast reduction about 9 years ago. It was far and away the best thing I have ever done. I feel great and, at 39, have no real use for bras unless they add a decorative element.
I was big. Big like you read about. Big as in when I went to a club people thought I was a stripper. Big as in when I lived in Florida a man approached me to be in a David Lee Roth video. Big as in women stared and made catty comments. Big.
(final consultation with my plastic surgeon who is accompanied, with my permission, by Doogie Houser, boy doctor in training.)
doc: Here is where we make the incision. I will try to preserve as much of the gland work so you will be able to breast feed, if you choose.
me: Hell, doc, I don't really care if you lose a nipple in the OR and only put one back on. Make. These. A. LOT. Smaller.
doc: Har har har. (Begins to share info with Doogie.) This is the blah blah and we'll be doing blah blah. (He has one of my breasts in his hand and is gesturing with a pointer thing while the youngster makes a serious face and sagely nods his head.)
me: (tiring of invisibility) Ah, wouldn't you guys be more comfortable doing this in the back of a car somewhere?
The poor boy turned purple and I was just happy to be in the company of qualified medical help if he should go down. After that - zero eye contact and he maintained his blush. I knew his type. All clean cut and preppy and when he gets loaded on Heineken at the frat house his type walks up to girls like me and offers to 'buy the boys a drink.' Yeah, take that.