Several years ago, I had a breast reduction. Now before my male readers yell, “Noooooo“, let me explain.
Developing at a young age, I went from flat to a 34E in less than a year. The older men started rubbernecking, construction workers started whistling and shouting inappropriate slurs, and my father just about had a coronary.
At age twelve, he was already planning my high school graduation present – a breast reduction.
By twenty-one, I looked like I should be on the cover of National Geographic a part of the Ubangi Tribe.
Fast forward to my early thirties, when I finally decided to see a plastic surgeon.
I went to the best, the one all the professional sport wives see. I brought my mom with me, and after meeting the doctor, they discovered wildlife photography was a common interest.
My surgeon had just returned from Africa, and after he instructed me to disrobe, he proceeded to show my mom his photos.
A nervous wreak to present my “tribe women breasts”, I finally worked up the courage.
I closed my eyes, turned around, and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
All I heard him say was, “It looks like two water buffalos fighting.”
Shocked and horrified, I opened my eyes. Here was a plastic surgeon in his sixties who had seen everything, and he thought my boobs looked THAT bad?! I quickly covered myself.
Standing beside my mom, he looked up in my direction.
“Oh, not you, dear. I was commenting on a photograph.”