Bigger Isn't Always Better

[Guest guest]

Bigger Isn't Always Better

What I learned from having breast implants.

by Tamara Wells*

http://www.christianitytoday.com/tcw/2006/003/14.56.html

Before Extreme Makeover ever hit television, I was a poster child

for plastic surgery.

My surgeon displayed my before-and-after photos in medical seminars

and classrooms across the nation, touting me as a breast

augmentation " success story. " But there's another side to this story—

my side.

Before surgery, I didn't have enough body fat to fill out a training

bra. I had a 28-inch bust line and a boyfriend, Chad*; losing him

spurred me to get the breast implants I occasionally mused about. I

was only 25 at the time.

Losing a Boyfriend, Gaining a Bust

I met Chad at a bar, where I was hanging out with a non-Christian

friend to cheer her up after a recent breakup. Chad and I talked all

evening; it didn't take me long to realize I was more attracted to

him than to any of the Christian guys I knew. Although I realized

God didn't want me to become seriously involved with a non-

Christian, the dearth of dates on my calendar convinced me I had

nothing to lose. So I called him a few days later, and we began

dating. In a few months' time, I had fallen hard for Chad, thinking

he was the one. When he unexpectedly ended our relationship, I was

devastated; I fretted over what was so wrong with me that the man I

loved could drop me without explanation. All the names I'd been

called in my youth— " Twiggy, " " stick figure, " " toothpick " —came back

to me.

I'd been elated to get them, feeling as though I finally went

through a part of puberty I'd been cheated of. But I was only

kidding myself.

Depressed, I had breast implants within three months of our breakup.

As a believer, I had an inkling getting implants wasn't part of

God's plan. But I was tired of being single, and I saw implants as a

way of securing the attention of eligible men. Surprisingly, my

family supported my decision. My flat-chested mother encouraged me

to go for it. She wore padded bras because my father, a non-

Christian, made her feel inadequate next to the big-breasted

centerfolds he ogled in Playboy. My eldest sister, whose breasts

were now saggy and stretch-marked after nursing two children, also

was considering breast implants. As I told a friend after my

surgery, " Some women color their hair after a breakup. I got a boob

job. "

Once I healed, I called Chad and told him what I'd done, secretly

wondering if I could win him back now that I'd improved my looks.

" Why'd you do that? " he asked, a disbelieving laugh in his

voice. " Don't you think I knew how much you had when I first asked

you out? "

I expressed my insecurities about our breakup, and he told me he

needed to end the relationship because my faith and his aspirations

to become a professional athlete were in conflict.

" While you want to go to church stuff, " he said, " I want to work

out. " An unbeliever, Chad recognized my " church stuff " took too much

time away from his training. The breast implants failed to win me

the love I craved, but I comforted myself with a shopping trip,

buying bras and strapless dresses that, for the first time, actually

fit.

Unwanted Distraction

I changed jobs and churches shortly after getting the implants and

made sure I dressed in a way that didn't flaunt my new figure. A few

people who knew me commented that I looked bustier than they

remembered, but I just responded, " Yeah, I finally gained some

weight. "

Not wanting to become romantically involved with another unbeliever,

I visited Christian singles groups and churches with a singles

ministry. When I walked into the churches, some of the women looked

worriedly at me and a few even latched on to the arms of their

husband or boyfriend.

I was unused to this reaction. Now a B-cup at max, I wasn't

disproportionately large. But at 115 pounds and 5'7 " , I looked like

a blonde ballerina with boobs. Overnight, it seems, I'd turned into

some sort of threat.

At the time of my surgery, my surgeon had discussed the risks of

breast augmentation: capsular contracture (breasts hardening like

rocks); rupturing; rippling; " bottoming out " (breasts sinking in the

breast pocket); and pain or loss of pleasurable sensation. I also

knew not to expect my breast implants to last a lifetime.

What I wasn't warned about were social situations I wasn't prepared

to handle. Outside the church scene, men regularly eyed my breasts

instead of my face when talking to me, and even occasionally made

lewd comments. Even at a Christian singles activity, a man once

caught me alone and made a suggestive remark. I stared at him, not

knowing what to say.

" Don't try to tell me you're still a virgin, " he said, sneering. But

I was.

I now seemed to attract the wrong kind of guy. And I worried that my

future husband might be disappointed when he learned the truth about

my breasts.

My implanted breasts felt unnaturally firm to me, pressing into my

rib cage like two tennis balls whenever I tried to sleep on my

stomach. They got in my way when I tried to swing golf clubs or do

everyday tasks. Although I'd been elated to get them, feeling as

though I finally went through a part of puberty I'd been cheated of,

I now felt I was kidding myself. These weren't breasts; they were

bags of saline and silicone riding around on my chest wall, high-

tech stuffing for bras.

I felt I was carrying a secret that might harm me if I revealed it

too soon in a relationship, but might harm me even more if I

revealed it too late. How, as a Christian, was I to bring up my

breasts in a conversation with a date?

Back to God's Original Plan

After three years with the implants, I began dating Steve*, a

Christian who treated me the way men had before my surgery. I felt

so comfortable with him that I shared the truth about my implants.

" They don't feel real to me, " I said. " I wish I could go back, but

I'm scared what my body might look like after another surgery. "

" Get rid of the implants, " Steve said. " If a man's right for you, he

shouldn't need them to feel attracted to you. I don't. "

A few months after we began dating, Steve asked me to marry him, and

a few months later, I had my surgery reversed.

Through my experience, I learned large breasts can be a blessing or

a curse, just as small breasts or no breasts can be. We're created

by God in different ways, and those ways each have their advantages

and disadvantages. Before my implants, I'd been blinded by society's

ideas of how I should look. I hadn't realized being flat-chested

could serve as a firewall to so many sleazeballs. I'd also lost

sight of the fact God had personally crafted me in my mother's womb,

that I was " fearfully and wonderfully made " (Psalm 139:14) by him—

and that included my small bust! I now realized what mattered most

to God was my heart, not my cup size.

After we were married, I said to Steve, " One thing I always loved

about you is that you looked at me when you spoke to me. You didn't

stand around ogling my breasts like other guys did. "

Steve coughed slightly and said, " You know, honey, some men are

attracted to boobs; some aren't so much. "

Fishing for a compliment, I asked him, " So what are you attracted

to? "

" Well, " he said, " I couldn't help noticing that cute little tush of

yours. "

I'm sure God was laughing at all my previous antics to land this

man, the love of my life.

Tamara Wells is a pseudonym for a freelance writer living in the

Midwest.

* Names have been changed.