A couple weeks ago, my husband posted a photo of my boob to Facebook, and no one noticed.
TFW didn’t notice when he took the photo, and he obviously didn’t notice it when he uploaded it to Facebook, either (he certainly wasn’t trying to show off my goodies). Facebook’s notoriously overzealous censors didn’t catch it, nor did any of our hundreds of Facebook friends — several people commented on what a cute photo it was, but no one seemed to notice that an adult woman’s breast was in full view!
Of course, when I fired up Facebook sometime later in the afternoon and noticed the photo on my page, I saw the offending boobage immediately. I will confess to briefly debating the merits of leaving it up there since it is otherwise a fairly flattering photo of me — my hair, in particular, looks nice and frizz-free — but ultimately I decided that I was not interested in displaying my nipple to the world without at least getting paid, so I made him delete it.
Now, you’re probably wondering two things at this point:
- Why was your boob hanging out in the first place?
- How the hell did no one notice?! Surely you can’t be serious!
The answer to both of those questions is the same: my boobs are very, very small. My boob was exposed because I was bending over and there was a giant gap between my child-sized brassiere and my breast (because the aforementioned tiny bra was still too large for its even tinier occupant), and no one noticed because, well, there’s really nothing for anyone to notice. They probably thought my nipple was a button on my sweater or something.
Here’s a tasteful Photoshopped version of my debut as a topless model:
Anyway, while this incident was amusing, it obviously wasn’t alerting me to a new problem; I’ve been small-chested forever (with the brief but glorious exception of those fleeting breastfeeding days, of course). It did temporarily reignite my desire for a surgical fix, though. The option of getting an augmentation has crossed my mind many times over the years, and with this latest reminder of the ridiculous non-size of my poor boobs, it’s been on my mind a lot.
Alas, as usual, I’ve determined that it simply will never be reality.
I’m not worried about the possibility of looking ridiculous — my hypothetical boob job would be very modest indeed, perhaps enlarging my breasts just enough so that they would fit into normal human-sized bras instead of leaving gaping spaces that make me vulnerable to unintended flashing when I bend over in low-cut tops. And the cost isn’t prohibitive, either. I’ve crunched the numbers, and a boob job could easily be saved up for in short order if I were to make subtle changes to my budget, such as not drinking my weight in Dr. Pepper every week.
No, my concern is that damn anesthesia.
Specifically, the fact that people DIE while under anesthesia. It happens, you guys.
And do you know how stupid it would be for Bubba to have to go through life saying “my mom died while getting a boob job” every time someone asked him about his family?!
Very, very stupid. The requisite sympathy he would be due for having a deceased parent would go out the window immediately; people would be choking back guffaws as they listened to the poor lad tell the tale: “yeah, she was perfectly healthy, but she really wanted to fit into this cute 32B bra from Victoria’s Secret…”
I can’t do it to him.
But if anyone knows of a plastic surgeon who is willing to shove some silicone under my skin without the aid of anesthesia (can’t we just use some novacaine like a dental procedure? I have a high pain tolerance!), I will gladly accept your referral.