My boobs and I have come to an agreement over the years. They will hang down to my belly button. I will bitch, moan, and threaten to hack them off. It’s a good arrangement for them.

They get to hulk around on my chest, making running and any other bouncy activities impossible. At one point, I tried strapping myself in with an ace bandage. It worked loose. I spent the rest of that jog in the traditional cross-armed clutch known by large breasted women the world over as the “Jesus, these fucking things cancel breathing every time they jounce” run.

They get to humiliate me in public. They tend to pop out in the swimming pool and ocean in all but the least comfortable bathing suits.  I twice duct taped myself into strapless bras to be in friends’ weddings. I did it a third time for my own.

And most of all, they get to hurt me. I have a K cup people. The eleventh letter of the alphabet. And that don’t mean no Keurig size, neither. The indentations on my shoulders are probably permanent. Every time I lose weight, I go up a cup. I thought that was supposed to work the opposite way.

There’s never any question that reduction surgery would be covered by insurance. But the one time I was at the point of scheduling it (back when I was a mere G), I met this guy, realized we’d probably have babies together, knew I’d want to nurse, and, whoops, that was fifteen years and two kids ago now.

I’ve wanted to make the change for some time, but have held back. I don’t want a shitty boob job, though frankly that would be better than the back pain. And I don’t want this to be some vanity thing. I’m not a fan of plastic surgery for its own sake.

And there’s that other Thing. The Big Thing.  Whatever else my boobs may be, they are healthy.

So many women’s breasts are not healthy. One friend of ours has survived cancer not once, but twice. Double mastectomy. Another is fighting it now. (And kicking its ass.) She’s also undergoing a double mastectomy soon, once her term of chemo finishes. And a third friend thought she’d won only to have the fucking cancer come back and metastasize. She fought hard, but she died, leaving her husband and three small sons behind. So my complaints about a sore back and painful exercise seem petty. And it’s hard to cope with a problem when it feels petty.

But a surprising number of friends here in town have had reduction surgery, and all of them swear it’s the best thing they’ve done for themselves. (I say that about my hysterectomy.) So last month I finally nerved up and spoke to a highly recommended doctor.

Long story short, the surgery is tomorrow.

Bye, bye, big boobies. Bye, bye, back pain. Twelve hours from now, I’ll be on my way to something like a C cup. Wish me luck folks and watch for my pain-killer induced, inappropriate Facebook humor.

See you on the other, smaller, side.

 

About jesterqueen: Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.