Maybe She’s Born with It, Maybe It’s Silicone – Part 1: In the Pursuit of Flawlessness

Warning: The following material is somewhat adult in content and should only be read by those who are over the age of 18… or at least have really cool parents.

Has the universe ever given you a gift that you are not quite sure what to do with?  Over the course of a couple of weeks, six women have eagerly led me to the bathroom, lifted up their shirts, and flashed their perfect works of art for my innocent eyes to marvel upon. (Two even insisted that I give them a good squeeze to get the full effect of how “real” they feel.  My favorite so far has been Roxanne* – teardrop, silicone, and bounce like the trampoline girls from “The Man Show…” Or the “Richard Stern Show…”  Or whatever your favorite “Show for the Exploitation of Women’s Breasts” is…)  Okay, okay, so maybe my eyes are not that innocent,** and there was usually a certain amount of alcohol involved in these scenarios.  But, until number six rolled around, I didn’t exactly roll into the club wondering how many sets of knockers I would be gawking at by the end of the night.

Boys, now that I have your envious attention: No, these were not real-life “Femme-Fatale” bathroom encounters.  They were more like R-rated (for some nudity and foul language) SNL shorts starring Tina Fey and Jenna Jameson with an anti-climactic ending.  Bubble burst.  So what was I doing with these gorgeous, modelesque women, half-naked in the bathroom of various night-clubs and bars in Atlanta?  My husband eagerly asked me the same question after my first encounter of the Double D kind…

Like many other A-Cup Angles throughout the United States, I grew up watching my friends flower, optimistically waiting for my shining moment of blossoming bosoms.  I did my research, and read in a very credible magazine for teenagers [insert sarcastic tone] that women’s breasts do not stop growing until the ripe age of twenty-three.  So I waited patiently.  When twenty-two came around and I was still contemplating the move up from my 6th grade training bra, I did not lose heart.  After all, I was the last of my friends to be visited by Mother Nature, kiss a boy, kiss a girl, smoke pot, and lose my virginity.  Why would getting breasts be any different?  It is also important to note that every woman in my family has large breasts and a bubbly bum.  I already had the bum, so I figured the breasts were just a matter of time.  So I waited.  Twenty three… Nothing…  Twenty four… Twenty seven… Any day now… Twenty nine… Flat.  I guess what Mrs. Magazine for Gullible Teenagers really meant to say was that women can continue to blossom until the ripe age of twenty-three – with the exception of the genetically gypped.

So, after many years of hanging on to the hope of naturally moving up the breast cup ladder, I finally came to realize that some dreams really are in the pipe, and can only be bought with a credit card or a sugar daddy.  This was a disheartening thought, as I have always been an advocate for natural beauty.  I bought my first powder compact when I was fifteen, and only used it to cover up the mole sized zit in the middle of my chin that so conveniently appeared on yearbook picture day – every year.  My first professional haircut was when I was eighteen at a Tony &Guy, and my golden tan never came from a bottle.

As a girl from a family with a modest bank account, spending money on vanity modification has always been an avoidable expense.  We used Suave, not Pantene, and my wardrobe consisted of hand-me-downs and Goody’s sales rack items.  Call me a hoarder, but, for sentimental reasons, I still sometimes wear the same red bra that I wore to my grandmother’s funeral when I was sixteen years old.  (Don’t judge.  I loved my grandmother, and my black one was in the laundry that day – at least I wore one.)

Contrary to my upbringing, and my innate appreciation for the natural, exploring the idea of breast augmentation has always been a nagging thought in the back of my mind.  I like the natural shape of my breasts, and no matter how long I go without wearing a bra, they never sag.  I can run a marathon without them ever hurting, and I can wear any shirt on the market.  But when summer comes around and I put on my newest skull-covered string bikini (medium bottoms, extra-small top), my skin-tone starts to turn a few shades greener at the site of other lean, athletic women that were lucky enough to be blessed with a chest.  It becomes a sore reminder that no matter how much time I put in the gym, I can never gain the true proportions of perfection and flawlessness that all women desire at some level.

I am sure that the majority of people stumbling across my Memoir of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee already have a formed, yet often uninformed opinion on breast augmentation and plastic surgery in general.  Many of you might encourage me to embrace my natural beauty as God so perfectly made me.  To that I simply reply, “As soon as you remove your braces, ditch the razors, cancel all future appointments to your hairdresser, and throw away your deodorant sticks, I will be glad to put my curiosities to rest.”  And for those of you who retaliate with “I made that commitment to the natural six months ago,” good luck with your new volunteer position at PETA.

As for my personal opinion, I am still on the fence.  I am currently researching the process and gathering facts and information on the potential long-term and short-term side effects.  Over the next few months, I will be conducting interviews with physicians, newly implanted patients, those who have had implants for years, boyfriends of the implanted, and boyfriends of A-Cup Angles.

In the end, I will be going to an actual consultation, maybe even a couple, documenting the entire experience along the way.

I look forward to hearing your opinions on this topic, and welcome you to join me on this journey of the Never-Ending Pursuit of Flawlessness.  But as your thoughts begin to flow, remember that Imperfect is only a snip and stitch away from I’m perfect…

*For her protection, I used a fake name… But her real name also sounds like an exotic dancer named after a British Top Ten from the 80’s.

**Thank you Brittany. We will all have your first big hit stuck in our heads for the remainder of the day.

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