#6 NEW YEAR NEW BOOBS
Beginning 2025 as I mean to go on: seven cup sizes smaller. 🛎️🛎️
New years tend to begin with resolutions, but I already made mine months ago: I resolved to never buy another gigantic bra ever again. Not for me, anyway. This is because, after two decades of longing, I was booked in for a boob job. Hence, in this month’s belated edition, I mull over my mammoplasty.
Boob Job
Of course, I was concerned about dying. Concerned is the wrong word – I was embarrassed by the prospect. Ever since I learned that Kanye West’s mum, Donda, died following breast reduction surgery, it’s stood out to me as a singularly tragic and embarrassing way to go. Even so, I had decided to have the same procedure.
The short version is this: I always resented my massive boobs. Throughout my teens and twenties, they aged me, they sexualised me, they feminised me, they gave me no choice. Plus, there were the leers, the gropes, the assumptions, the unspoken big boob tax that is big bras. The unspoken international agreement that big boobs are public property. I’d always dreamed of having them removed, but it never occurred to me that I could actually just phone a hospital and arrange a consultation and do it. Until, one day, I did. And the rest (in this abridged version) is history. Oh, and it was also hugely encouraging to learn that in France, if the boobs are big enough, it’s on the house. Thank you, socialism.
The surgeon looked like he’d been chosen by a Hollywood casting agent who’d been given the brief French Boob Doctor. He was the precise height that united all women on dating apps, with olive skin and a wave of glossy hair that implied he might go surfing on bank-holiday weekends. For the record, he’d been recommended by a friend for the quality of his work. I was glad to be in such strong – I mean capable – hands.
As though to prevent any untoward thoughts, I was given a set of Groovy Chick-purple scrubs, including co-ordinating hair net, knickers and non-slip socks that were immediately put to work as I was led along the length the operating ward all the way to the ominously numbered Room 0.
I can’t tell you anything about the operation itself because I was mercifully sedated. What I will say is, if anaesthesia weren’t so unbelievably dangerous, I would take it every night. When I awoke in the recovery room, I felt as though I’d emerged from the most blissful slumber.
After an indeterminate period, two model-hot hospital porters wheeled me away, making me question whether I actually was in a prestige medical drama, not in fact a municipal hospital. My chauffeurs brought me to a private room (seriously, great work socialism) which I goofily referred to as la suite présidentielle in my post-op fugue state. Over the course of the next 12 hours, I was greeted and prodded by a steady rotation of attentive and surprisingly attractive medical staff, with the exception of Nurse Wilfred who, what he lacked in good looks, he more than made up for in good humour and body hair.
I’m sure it will delight many of you to know that, despite the outstanding quality of care and facilities that the French healthcare system provided me with, the food was utterly revolting. I was pleased to have been discharged with moments to spare before I was subjected to lunch. ‘Non merci,’ I said, buttoning my shirt with ease, ‘I’m taking these boobs to go’.
🏥🏥🏥🏥🏥🏥🏥🏥🏥
Rating: 9 hospitals out of 10.
Boob Job Recovery
The worst part of the convalescence is making small talk with the nurse while my scars are cleaned and re-dressed each day. The subjects seldom differ from a GCSE listening test: ‘So… do you walk or cycle between house calls?’ ‘What time did you start work today?’ ‘Where is the swimming pool?’ It’s brutal. Another low point was on day six, when I was convinced that my nipple was going to peel off along with the plaster (it didn’t). For full transparency I should also mention that I find it impossible to sleep on my back, so have pretty much become an insomniac, pining for a kindly anaesthetist to send me off to the land of nod.
Beyond that, my two-week sick leave thus far has been a breeze: Lord of the Rings the Fellowship of the Ring (Extended Director’s Cut), paracetamol, Lord of the Rings the Two Towers (Extended Director’s Cut), paracetamol, Lord of the Rings the Return of the King (Extended Director’s Cut), paracetamol, Lord of the Rings the Fellowship of the Ring (Cast Commentary), and so on. Chris has been doing all the washing up. It’s basically my dream weekend (Extended Director’s Cut).
Even though I’m still bandaged up and have been advised to wear a compression bra day and night for a full month, I am ecstatic with the results. I still can’t really believe that I actually did it after imagining it for so long. There’s no clever way to put it: I just feel like myself. All physical memory of my former mammaries has faded. I’m impatient to start accepting invitations to drinks, dinners and generally taking my top off, so I need to keep reminding myself that I have in fact undergone surgery, and that I must to resist temptation, to let my scars heal for as long as possible before I go anywhere near a dance floor, or a nudist beach. But I’m counting down the days. There’s only so long Peter Jackson’s oeuvre can sustain me.
💍🧙♂️🦅🌋👁️🧝♂️⚔️👑
Rating: 8 LOTR trilogies out of 10.
Rec room
ICYMI: Here’s Rebecca Shaw’s very convincing argument that we should bring back bullying for billionaires 💻 and, at long last, Swirl is here to brighten up the bleak midwinter 🌀
Words by Alice Brace. Images by Flora Hibberd.