Wreckless Friday Days

I fell asleep last night in some weird fluid liquidy dream, after E called to say goodnight and I love you. Squished between pillows and my faux down comforter lie me and Asa, who I pretty much always have to fight over cuddle space with. Little Asa, bundle of goodness, she hates being cold as much as I do, and will inevitably whimper if she is chucked out because no one wants to wake up with dog hair plastered on their ass. I fell asleep to the TV, something I pretty much always do if I am not sleeping next to him, on Comedy Central, with the lights on I tried to bury my head under my ripped up pink quilt.

I roused my ass awake several times in the midst of an interesting dream, one where I elected to go to the hospital to get breast implants. Not the huge nasty double D to F numbers that everyone else with no boobs gets, but literally 1.5 sizes bigger than I am. Now, yes, I hear the groans don’t get them why would you do that and all the other echoing numbness that saying this results in, but I don’t think anyone can have an opinion on it unless you really know and understand what it is like to have a barely anything, and I am saying barely because there is always space in the bra. When society’s idea of femininity is wrapped around small and delicate, and I happen to hover above everyone at 5’10, the only true mark of femininity that I have is my face and my breasts. Now, my face is widely known to have this ambiguous androgyny about it, and I am not talking about looking like a man, but having unique features and a sex phone voice. I know I am a beautiful girl under the standard “exotic” definition of beauty, and no I don’t think or aspire anything masculine about any of this, but when my hair is short, I can rock that slightly dyke sense of style, where invariably if I am hanging out with a girl, every person around me suspects or hints that I might be with them. But anyways…yeah that’s something that happens with all of my female best friends. So onto the breast implant thing. I have considered it, not considered it, sworn I would never do it, thought I would definitely do it etc. I don’t know why I dreamt about it except there might have been some infomercial on that spawned my breast implant dream.

You know, the thing I don’t understand is why everyone always tells me I am built like a model, models have nothing bla bla bla, but having the body of a model is not something to aspire to at all. It’s my natural body type, and I never have to wear a bra, it’s true, but it really is considered not only not valuable, but a “turn off”.

The thing about it was, I remember fully realizing I was getting bags implanted under my skin and filled with saline. I knew this. I just knew that if I woke up with breasts that I would never have to deal with another person saying “yo, man, look at that bitch, she look more like a man than a bitch”. Now pretty much every tall flat-chested girl I know deals with this, and I don’t even think people truly believe it but they want to…or they want me to feel bad because I don’t have blazing cleavage on my chest. The thing I always think is, if I were a man, wouldn’t I get bigger implants than these little things? I mean, shit. I don’t think they make them this small at all. So the dream kaleidoscoped with visions of my parents realizing I was getting them to my little sister kind of crying about it, me assuring her that she would grow huge boobs once she had kids like my mother. Given that me having kids is pretty much never gonna happen, I am not going to be growing breasts naturally at all. So I went through my procedure (which was montaged with me delivering a baby for someone else and walking around, and I looked down and felt them. I could feel the bags, but I stuck my finger in the right side of my bra (now too small) and noticed that my right boob was still smaller than the left. But lo and behold once I stuck my finger on the other side, I had honest to god cleavage, something I do not ever have naturally.

So I woke up at 9 to my phone ringing, and I look down and see the Dr.’s office calling. I called back feverishly hoping I hadn’t missed it, but my phone had been shut off. Whoops. Sleepy as I was, I jettisoned over to the computer and logged on to tell Mr. Sean to call his girl and tell her I was sorry I missed it. Now I have a fifty dollar cancellation fee.

I still have no chest or butt, by the way. And although I morally fight myself on this all of the time, I do not think that if the procedure was safer or easier that I would not do it. I would do it for me and every death I have had in self-confidence any time someone questions me. I grew up with all double D’s around me and knew no one else close to me who had my issue, aside from tallness. Though all the tall girls I know have boobs, and they never have people talk shit. And I don’t want double D’s, my back is bad enough thank you. I just would love to not have to wear a five inches thick padded bra to appear to be as much girl as I am.

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