BOOBS, BUTTS & BOTOX
I’VE always been a glasshalf-full kind of girl, but it’s time to face facts. My cup is far from running over. And apparently I’m on my own.
The average bust size in Australia is now DD. WTF?
I couldn’t fill one of those cups with both boobs and a butt cheek thrown in. And to be honest, I wouldn’t want to.
I had a big bosom once, and it was a total bust.
Sure, as a nursing mother I had to contend with leakage and access issues, but mostly I just hated how matronly they made me feel.
A decent push-up bra is all I need to fill a dress when necessary (and by “decent” I mean enough padding to use as a protective helmet), and it’s back to pre-pubescent freedom the next day.
Obviously we can’t blame the hormones in chicken for this boom in busts, so my question is: why is it so desirable to have such a weight on your chest?
I’ll admit I’d opt for a size up given the opportunity, but I’m talking a genie-in-a-bottle kind of wish-fulfilment, not a surgeon with a scalpel.
It worries me that women are so ready and willing to go under the knife for … what? Self-fulfilment? More attention? Confidence?
I’m not judging, I just don’t understand. Why is it so important? Also, I’m a total wuss so maybe the thought of surgery just isn’t such a big deal to some women.
But you know what, this whole being-a-woman thing is kind of hard.
If you alter yourself physically — whether via surgery, injectables or just gym work — you’re vain. And controlled by the patriarchy. If you don’t work to improve what God gave you, you’re lazy. And ugly. And probably a man-hating feminist to boot.
Now, added to my own internal female crises, is the realisation that my daughter is watching every little thing I do like a creepy stalker.
She idolises me. All right fine, I trained her to do that … talk about building a rod for your back (although that really would provide great core support should I ever supersize myself).
The problem is that as I age I have to consider not only how I handle the changes, but how the way that I handle it affects her.
Because the truth is, I’m tempted to have a tiny bit of work done.
To quote Dolly Parton, patron saint of cosmetic surgeons: time marches on … and sooner or later you realise it’s marching across your face.
I’ve been down this road once before and it ended disastrously. A few too many needles and somehow I looked like a demented squirrel. My eyebrows were flung to the far corners of my forehead, my crows feet relaxed to the point they became jowls.
I swore never again. Until I considered growing out my fringe. I lifted that veil of hair and holy crap, what has been happening under there the last few years?
Horrified, I spontaneously stopped by a clinic at a shopping centre to find out my options. Secretly, I was convinced they would say I was imagining it, that I didn’t need a single thing done.
Look, I’m still sure that’s what they realty thought … but they have a business to run, right?
Although judging by the quote I was given, their fiscal future is safe.
But don’t worry, I exacted my own price.
I explained to the lovely technician that I had somewhat of a philosophical issue with not accepting my ageing gracefully.
She countered with the fact that I have no problem dyeing my hair, changing outfits or wearing make-up. Yes, I said, but that’s all about expressing my personality … this is all about wiping my expression.
I further explained how I can’t help but look askance at women who have had obvious work done — eyeing their ridiculously puffy lips and pillowy cheeks with disdain, smugly feeling sorry for their lack of self-confidence.
My problem, really; not theirs.
And yet … here I sat. Full of self-loving confidence and yet … hating every wrinkle.
The technician took it all very well, given that I was slagging off not just her career but also her own face. Actually, given the work she’d had done she may well have been scowling at me by this point.
I considered continuing to taunt her until I could force a forehead wrinkle but feared that could result in a punch to my nose — and I definitely don’t have the cash to fix that.
I still don’t know what I’m going to do, if anything. But I do know what I can tell my daughter: It’s my body and it’s my choice. And it’s your body and it’s your choice. Judge yourself, but not others.
However, given how alike we are, I secretly hope she’s OK inheriting my Type A body and mind.
Read Ann Wason Moore every Tuesday and Saturday in the Bulletin