THE DEFIANT ACT OF OWNING UP TO YOUR PLASTIC SURGERY

Two days ago, I went to see my friend, Dr. Oren Tepper, for a breast lift and a fat transfer. I’d known that I needed my boobs fixed for about four years. But I kept putting it off, because I actually loathe surgery.

It was the fat globule under my chin that finally pushed me over the edge.

For about a year, I tried all the lasers, creams, and micro-needlings available. Nothing seemed to work. I kept telling Oren that he needed to use a straw and just suck it out on his lunch break. He ignored me for a good six months, but eventually I wore him down.

We took some 3D images in his office to prove I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t. I had suckable fat, and I wanted it sucked! While I was there, I decided that it was finally time to fix the lopsided breast lift that I’d done during the pandemic.

(This is actually the more flattering side. But that little fat pocket made me insane.)

In 2020, my implants were almost drinking age and needed to be replaced. At the time, I wanted to avoid having the full lollipop scar running down my boob, so the doctor (not Oren) tried tightening my breast with a nipple cinch. In theory, this sounded ideal, but in practice, not so much.

(See the pulling? It never went away.)

I knew Oren at this time. But, to be honest, I was afraid of going to him. It didn’t seem worth it to complicate our friendship over a pair of sagging tits. God forbid something went wrong, and then for the rest of eternity Jason could blame him for my death and leave text messages like, “Call me back, bro. It’s the least you can do after offing my wife and her lopsided tits.”

After kids, my initial instinct was to take my implants out completely. This was something I’d been dreaming of for years, but I couldn’t seem to get anyone else on board for it.  After nursing two kids, I didn’t have the breast tissue required to make a full boob. It also would have meant a much more invasive surgery that I simply wasn’t prepared for.

Why is it that women who go public about having their implants removed are lauded and praised, while women who actually heed the advice of their doctors and leave their implants in are viewed as plastic surgery-loving monsters who care about nothing but their own vanity?

When we were young, we were told to always brush our hair, sit up straight, and never leave home without lipstick. But as we age, we are shamed for not shrinking ourselves down to fit society’s expectations of a woman past her expiration date.

It’s as if we cannot tolerate the idea of a woman wanting to maintain her youth once her child-bearing years are behind her. How dare she? Who does she think she is? So sad! This is the patriarchy operating at its most pervasive.

In two weeks, I will be forty-five years old. I live in New York City, and I work in the entertainment industry. Nearly every woman I know has had plastic surgery.  And it's entirely their choice whether or not they want to talk about it. But I’m not the quiet type. And keeping my nips and tucks a secret feels like I am succumbing to a system that has disempowered women since the beginning of time.

Whether it’s coloring her hair or having an abortion, judging a woman for what she does with her body is unacceptable.

I felt an obligation to share my surgery, the same way I feel an obligation to wear my pro-choice sweatshirt, to botox my forehead, to color my hair, and to tell men to fuck off when they tell me to smile on the subway. It’s my prerogative what I do to myself, and to be honest, I feel I’ve been extremely conservative with my choices.

I understand that elective surgery is a luxury, and I am so lucky to be in a situation where I can afford such incredible care. My mom and I are laying in bed together right now, healing nicely. We look basically the same age.

Cheers to making your own decisions with your own body! We salute you!