It’s Thirsty Thursday ya’ll! Who’s thirsty for a rant?!
[Confession] I admit it. I just made this Thursday thing up in light of my horrid time management skills because this post was supposed to be ready for WTF is on yo mind Wednesday but that clearly didn’t happen and rants can’t just marinate on the counter like pieces of meat NO rants are juicy and flavorful in the moment you know? Ok now I’m hungry. Anyways, I kind of like this Thursday concept better, actually. It may just stick. Then again, nothing ever sticks. I’m THE epitome of inconsistency and it’s OBVIOUSLY the only reason why I’m not a famous writer yet. Duh.
So I’ve been thinking about this whole “I got my boobs done” fuckery. And there are a few things I need to get off my chest.
In retrospect, I have zero idea what the fuck I was thinking when I woke up and decided it would be mad fun to have my nipples cut open, the muscles behind my breasts ripped apart and then sewn back together only after having bags smushed back there to be filled with saline which would only add to the destruction of my muscles, all so that I could ultimately walk around without a bra under a tank top. Clearly my priorities are right up there with a toddler getting 1 cookie in each hand upon demand. Meh.
Genius decision Ely. You dumb glittery cunt. You couldn’t just go get another 70$ padded, wired bra right? No. Of course not. You’re in the business of being extra.
Today makes 3 weeks since I walked out of a butcher’s shop with new boobs and while I’m loving that all the cleavage which my vindictive offspring stole from me is back, I just cannot fucking even with this recovery.
Yo, I am hardcore as fuck. I can take pain. I have 3 tattoos and 9 holes in my ears and I had my eyebrow pierced (twice) and 2 belly button rings in high school. Then I gave vaginal birth. Twice. Which pretty much broke my (insert your favorite alternate “vagina” term here so as to somewhat reduce the already off-the-chain awkwardness) but it’s all good because I had it all sewn back together like new.
Irregardless, fuck my perky boobs right now. This has been by far the worst pain ever. I’d take labor over this any day! The first 4 days were raw torture. I was basically handicapped. I barely slept, and I barely left my recliner because getting up from that required a fucking forklift. It’s like I was a sac of dead weight filled with saline. I was drugged 24/7 on Valium and Percocet- still feeling pain-and to make matters worse, I forgot to take stool softeners while taking so much medication.
Fast forward to 5 days later when I realized I hadn’t actually gone to the restroom and was forced to do the unthinkable. I will shamelessly admit that the most humiliating, dehumanizing thing I’ve ever had to experience in my life was my other half having to purposefully violate me with an enema.
3 weeks deep and I’m still sore, unable to sleep on my chest which is the norm for me (I sleep kind of like the chalky outline of a dead body at a crime scene), and barely able to apply any pressure on anything including fondant which means my new boobs are now messing with my side hustle. And if you mess with my side hustle you mess with my money. And if you mess with my money you mess with ME. Which means I mess with me. Which means I need to fight me? Ok look it’s possible the saline in my chest must’ve somehow infiltrated my brain and drowned the remainder of my brain cells.
Having implants is literally the strangest physical feeling ever. It feels exactly like what it is- foreign as fuck. Like it’s not supposed to be there. I’m not sure how long it’ll take but I can only assume I’ll get used to the feeling, probably very much like wearing contact lenses feels totally normal after a certain amount of time and adjusting.
Considering how sucky this recovery has been, I keep asking myself why the fuck do women do this to themselves? Why do we insist on dismantling our body parts and replacing them with new ones or adding new pieces to them?!
The relentless chase for beauty and perfection is difficult to make sense of. It’s vicious. Dangerous. Petty. Psychologically fucked up, even. But now that I can sit at the cool table with the all the tits-to-chins chicks, I can see things with a bit more clarity. I totally get it now. We do these painful things to ourselves for freedom.Freedom from feeling less
But I’m not here to dig into serious matters of self confidence or the history of womanhood. Let’s cut the bullshit, we do it because we can and because it makes us feel some type of way about ourselves. It’s an immediate confidence boost. Personally, I have goals. This was just one. I don’t plan on going under the knife again, but I’m for sure more motivated to get my fitness on now. I mean. Who wants great boobs and a not so great body? Not me that’s for damn shizzle.
If I could show you a before and after, you wouldn’t even question my motives. Not only was I dealing with a bit of “sadness” there but also with some asymmetry. I wanted to feel freedom from the stresses of not being able rock a low cut or open back dress/shirt. Hey. We all choose our battles right? There’s not always some deeper bigger psychologically motivated purpose for every single fucking thing we choose to do. This had nothing to do with my childhood nor heartbreaks or failures. My hubby gifted this to me because I was adamant that I wanted this- not because he cared or wanted me to have it done. It was about me, for once.
I still currently regret putting myself through this kind of healing process because I really wasn’t expecting this, but I’m sure I’ll get over it in a few weeks.
What’s your take on “cosmetic procedures” have you ever had anything done or considered having it done? Will my boobs ever heal? Specially my left one? Is it summer yet? Will I lose my home because I’m going to go cray on all the sports bras and the tank tops? Are you ready for the fitness rants to come?