Happy Devil’s Night, Internet! Today is a special day for me. As you can see by this lovely dollar that I shamelessly posted in McGuire’s Irish Pub for all eternity, I bid a fond farewell to what used to be my chest.
No, I didn’t have breast cancer, and bless those strong ladies! And no, I didn’t have top surgery, and bless those badass guys!
I had just an ordinary reduction. Well. It wasn’t that ordinary. It was the most extraordinary, yet terrifying experience. Not terrifying as in it was horrible. Hell no! Terrifying as in I hadn’t had major surgery since I was old enough to remember.
And it is the best, best decision I ever made.
Let’s take it back a bit. A breast reduction was something I had considered for ten years. Ten. But it was never the right time. When I hit puberty, I was instantly in the DD. Theories now point to possible medication mixing with genetics and boom. No bra off the rack ever fit me. And if I forced myself into one, there was no support, and usually they always fell out. I could write a full set of encyclopedias on back pain and still it wouldn’t be enough.
I was made fun of for my chest soon as puberty hit on into adulthood. Boys in middle school thought I was hella attractive because I had a giant rack. Never mind my tiny 13 year-old self’s confidence being in the toilet.
In my first long-term relationship which had it’s whole host of issues, one of them was my own girlfriend laughing about my ample chest floating when we went swimming. It seems funny doesn’t it? You’re probably giggling. At that moment? Let me tell you how humiliating it was.
I had a coworker call me out in a store full of customers saying “If you got your boobs off your belly you’d be prettier!”
Yes. Really. That really happened. I have also too many times to count ask people if they knew what my fucking eye color was.
As I had grown, and gained weight, I had topped out at JJ. Yes. No bras, even online from well-known retailers made them in my size. Imagine my delight when I took my measurements, and chatted with the customer help line at Soma and she comes back and says “According to our chart, you’re an II. We don’t even make them that large.” No that is not the Roman numeral II.
I had gone on a crusade for finding a bra that fit me, and many other girls I knew that couldn’t find a bra that fit them. Imagine my joy the day I had to enter the Google search query: “Bras for the women of the Biggest Loser.”
For all of you ladies out there still dealing with a giant chest? I still recommend Enell 100%!
I started my consult with Gulf Coast Plastic Surgery in June of 2014. And once the insurance approval came through, my date was set for November. By a stroke of amazing luck, there was a cancellation and I got in October 30. I got the news while I was in the limo on the way to GRL 2014 in Chicago. And during GRL I was declared the Germ Free Zone. No hugs. Not even a handshake. And all the OJ I could stomach.
The weird part was while I was super excited I got a very surprising reaction from a few.
“Why?” they’d ask. “Is someone making you? I think you look fine.”
Excuse you. Take a seat. Take all the seats. In fact. Sit on the fucking floor.
My surgery was my choice. And if you are contemplating it because someone else is making you? Run the fuck away. Cosmetic surgery is always the patient’s choice. It’s always the patient’s decision. If the patient says no? Then the buck stops there.
People saw me wearing an 90 dollar bra and thought I looked great. Well. I did. I was proud of my curves when dressed. When that bra came off and it was PJs time. Oh. No. My breasts sat on my thighs. They hung past my hips.
So you think again when you ask someone why they’d permanently alter their body. Think hard. Think real hard. That is actually the only part of the whole ordeal that made me furious. Friends with very well-meaning intentions, and trying to talk me out of it. No. How about no. How about stop.
On the October 29, it was a bad day for me. Because on October 30, I was going to have four pounds of flesh removed from my chest. I got all in my head about surgery. I was terrified. I broke down sobbing half the night. Mom told me I could change my mind, but I said I couldn’t. I had come so far, this is what I always wanted, and now that it was here, I didn’t know if I’d really look any different.
Mom told me a strange piece of advice for a Mom but it was worth it in the end. She told me to take a topless selfie. And I did, and I’m not posting it as dude no that’s private. And looking back on it…it’s crazy.
Surgery came and I gave it one last hurrah for my loving fans in case this was the last they’d see of me…
Luckily, it was not my last hurrah, though apparently I couldn’t stop throwing up once I came out of the anesthesia. By the way, I had the hottest anesthesiologist in existence. I also remember selling people Americana Fairy Tale. Because Lex Is Lex Wherever She Goes.
I had Mom document the experience, so I could give my readers Proof of Life updates. This was from Halloween in my epically authentic surgical patient costume.
The end result? My back pain was gone instantly. I cannot describe how alien it is to realize I can sit in coffee shop chairs and hunker over tables for hours on end and before I could only manage 20 minutes before I called it quits.
For Christmas, Mom bought me bras. Real bras. Like from a store and off the rack. And I’ve bought bras since then and have gotten many strange looks from poor sales associates when I explain to them no really sweetie I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.
My brother took me on my first post-surgery outing to go see Big Hero 6. It was quite possibly the worst decision we ever made because the movie completely wrecked me. In between the painkillers and hormones rewiring, I was inconsolable.
I love the shit out of that movie.
A few usual effects from the surgery was I’m taller now. I actually gained an inch in height. I went from being 5’4″ to 5’5″
The other funny one is I do lift my shirt to adjust my bra in public. I do not give a flying fuck who stares. Or if anyone notices. If you only knew what used to be my chest, I’d gladly join the FB revolution to go topless. Chicks dig scars, and glory is forever.
My girlfriend, C.S. Poe, didn’t know me before surgery and when I relayed the story, she couldn’t even fathom it. She couldn’t even comprehend such a size existed. In fact, I wouldn’t have even gotten in a relationship with her if I was still a JJ I was so self-conscious.
If anything I could tell tiny me that didn’t think this was an option? Your confidence may be nonexistent, but you keep on trucking. You keep doing you. You screw the haters. Say fuck it to the boys that don’t care about your name. Tell the girls that laugh at you for your unavoidable bounce they can screw off. Because it’ll be worth it.
You’re worth it.