Saline Through Life

I am an educated, liberated woman, and this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered, "Should I get breast implants?"

There, I've confessed. I can't think of any way I could embarrass myself further, but I'm going to try. Let me explain.

I used to think plastic surgery was for insecure, whiny women with no self-esteem. In fact, I still think that. There's no relationship between breast size and cranial capacity, or even earning power (except in certain black market fields I don't care to pursue. Although, I have to admit, in terms of the sweet life of a stripper: at least you skip college and you never pay taxes on your tips). But I digress. The point is, I was never whiny: I was mostly satisfied with the way I looked.

But recently, driven by stress, cold-weather and my rising gym bill, I've starting taking near-daily trips to our local health club. I take Pilates and yoga. I bounce a stability ball on my nose (as well as other unlikely places). I swim laps for the first time since dropping swim team. After just three weeks of this aggressive regimen, I'm stronger and smaller than ever. But here's the caveat (and there's always something) when women shrink, they shrink everywhere. (The same can't really be said of men. Is there nothing on earth that doesn't work in men's favor?)

So I went from being average to...well...almost average. And this is a huge psychological difference. (Imagine, if you're a man, the same thing happening to you. Wouldn't you treat it as a crisis on the same level as premature balding, inability to parallel park or, say, the Israel/Palestine conflict?) I've looked for positive help. I've mentioned the problem to friends, but through some self-destructive impulse I've only befriended women who are far better endowed than I am. Their sympathy takes the form of "constructive advice" like "Well, at least you're not fat" or "Why don't I give you one of mine to balance us out? Oh wait, hahaha, I can't. Sorry." Thanks, girls. My mother, who negates all my rebellions by taking them in stride, said, "Well, honestly, you're probably the smallest woman in our family. But they'll get bigger when you're pregnant." Thanks, Mom. Not only am I a genetic anomaly, but the only solution to my problem is a lifelong commitment to the absolute care of another human being.

How is it possible I didn't think of this when I started working out so much? Perhaps because most of the women I see in their underwear (Adriana, Karolina, Gisele and Alessandra) seem incredibly fit and massively endowed. But you can't Photoshop into real life the way you can onto magazine pages.

And to be honest, most people don't seem to care. Men have the same attitude towards size as four-star generals have toward U.S. troop deployment in Iraq: although bigger is usually better, the most important thing is a coordinated strategy. Particularly if you're committed long-term.

So I guess I can handle it, without the aid of cosmetic surgery. After all, Merriam-Webster defines a woman as "an adult female person." It's quite a brief definition, really. In the dictionary, at least, less can be more.