Ah-ha! Because I Can

Do you ever feel those “ah-ha” moments where everything seems crystal clear. You’ve got all the answers and for a split second there is no fear. You may have the answer to a question you have had or if you are a believer that maybe god answered a prayer.  Then a quiet, zen-like moment occurs and you feel at peace.

I used to work for a woman who had brilliant ideas and moments of insight all the time. Her ideas were usually obvious, but she happened to be the first who thought of them. She’d have answers to all kinds of perplexing life questions and work scenarios. Her wisdom tended to occur as a flash of brilliance in the shower. She’d start, “I was in the shower and….” then she’d share her marvelous pearls of wisdom.

Secretly I was jealous. I wanted a ‘shower idea.’ Since knowing her, I have had many situations where a brilliant moment would have been appreciated. I’d get in the shower and ask the universe for an answer to some kind of situation du-jour that needed a remedy. Na-da. The shower gods were unresponsive.

Then, 5 weeks ago, I was in the shower, doing what the shower is designed for: showering and washing my body. I soaped up my scrubbie and started scrubbing, just like I’ve done for 40+ years. When I got to my boobs, I had the moment. The Shower Thought had come to me. Boobs. I needed a boob job. Yes, I said ‘need’ not ‘want.’  In my mind there was no difference because I had made up my mind. The equation is simple:

{2 Kids + Years of Weight Fluctuation + (Gravity*42 Years)} / {Self Esteem – (9 * (years of neglect from gay husband) = Boob Job

Obvious, right?

Or perhaps it could be summed up as simply “mid life crisis.” But I doubt it. It was my ah-ha moment. I am owing it and claiming it as my ah-ha moment. Plus, I rationalized, I deserve it. I am young(ish), generally attractive, and new boobs would look really good on me. Mind you, I’m not talking porn star boobs, but some serious knockers that would look smokin’ hot on my petitie frame. I also do have a practical side and need them to be unobtrusive so that I can still maintain my exercises, which has been critical to my my mental health.

So there I was, soaped up and charged up. I had my shower idea and the very next day had a consult. I met with the surgeon and tried on several sizes. Within minutes, I made up my mind. I suppose major surgery should take more deliberation and thought, but I knew exactly what I wanted. I booked my surgery date, paid my deposit and was ready to go.

A week later, a friend was driving me home to recover. When all was said and done, I had 350 ccs of silicone inserted under my muscles. Everything was lifted up to where it should be. Now that the swelling has gone down a bit and the incision sites are healing, I must say that they look good. Not fake. They fit me like I wanted them to and I am quite pleased with how they look. I was in the shower soaping them up and that is when it hit me.

I didn’t ask anyone permission. I didn’t discuss this with anyone or ask opinions on what size I should get. I didn’t socialize this idea with girlfriends, family, or GI Joe. I didn’t deliberate or have to ask my spouse. That is when I chuckled out loud because I could imagine how that conversation would have gone. My gay husband was not a ‘boob’ guy. He was a ‘dick’ guy so he would not have been supportive of this plan.

This decision, I kept it to myself not because I was embarrassed or felt that someone would think less of me or more of me. My big discovery was: I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me. This is about me and for me.  I felt empowered and strong. I did this because I can.  Ah-ha!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s