I Want my Boobies Back, Boobies Back, Boobies Back.

(SUNG TO THE CHILI’S BABY BACK RIBS TUNE)

by karen buscemi

I have to issue an apology.

Sort of.

Over the years, the subject of boobs – especially artificially enhancing them – has been a topic of fodder for this column. I’ve been a staunch believer in learning to love what you have, feeling that going for the “upside-down cleavage smiles” that fake boobs produce was a bad idea. Especially when those boobs were constantly paraded around (even to the grand opening of a local library) in the deepest V-necks to make the most of the money spent.

I’ve changed my mind. Sort of.

Now that I’ve given birth to my second child and am no longer breastfeeding, something unimaginable has happened to the girls: They’ve transformed to 34Ds.

“D” meaning “Deflate.”

No longer suitable for parading around in a turtleneck, my breasts, which always were a not-going-to-slapme- in-the-face-while-jogging 34B, went through their first transformation when Noah was born 10 years ago. They moved from somewhere in line with my heart to a location closer to my intestines, the left one drooping more than the right, thanks to lazy breastfeeding habits. (This is what happens when you work and feed a baby at the same time.Who can use a mouse with the opposite hand?) But I was OK with that. I didn’t want a little sagging to become a major obsession in my life. So I bought a killer push-up bra for when I wanted to be reminded of simpler times, and went about my life.

But now. Oh, now.

When I was pregnant with Jesse, and then again when I was breast-feeding, I told my husband repetitively to enjoy the torpedoes while I had them because at some point, they’d be gone forever. I must have had an inkling of my future to provide him this foreshadowing, because sure enough, they’re gone. Really gone. I’ve thought about how to describe their current state, and the best I can come up with is it’s like somebody went in and took out all the marshmallowy goodness, replacing it with soggy bread. They don’t fit right in my bras, either. I’m going to have to replace them all – but with what, I don’t know. An industrial harness?

I don’t like the look of my boobs anymore. I still wouldn’t want to jack them up with silicone or whatever other options are out there. I don’t need them to be bigger. I just want back what once was mine. And I want them partly for me and partly for my husband. Not that he’s made a single comment about them. He just seems happy now that he’s allowed to handle them again. But I don’t really want him handling them. I’m afraid that in the middle of a grope fest, he’ll suddenly have a hankering for a soft sandwich.

So I want to look into a breast lift. I’m not saying I’m going to do anything. But I’m open to discussion. Do I feel like a hypocrite? Somewhat. Because I’m not happy with what I have, and I don’t see myself learning to love these deployed air bags. Am I worried about someone taking a knife to me in the name of beauty? Hell, yes. I can picture myself leaving this world because of a cosmetic surgery misstep, and the gossip that would ensue at my funeral. I am way too vain for that.

Karen Buscemi moves forward in Royal Oak.