Bouncing Betty's Basket o' Boobs

In almost every culture, there comes a rite of passage for marking the transition between childhood and young womanhood. For 1960's American culture, that ceremony usually took place at a department store in the imposingly-named "Foundations" department. If this were the National Geographic Channel, anthropologists would call this episode "Shopping for the First Bra."

There the smell was of clean cotton and faint traces of customers' mingling perfumes. The lighting was appropriately subdued, and salespeople murmured their suggestions, accompanied by the clack of tiny hangers and the gentle opening and closing of secret drawers under the display tables. Back in the fitting rooms (what I called "the dungeon" in my child-brain), it was a different story.

Back in there, the bra-fitting saleslady ruled her fiefdom. She was a tiny, ancient, wrinkled woman, with grey pin curls on her head and caking makeup powder on her cheeks. Her thin lips were enhanced with lipstick feathering up tiny crevices all around her mouth. Her words were sweet and soothing, ("just come on back here, dear, and we'll fix you right up,") but her tone was laced with an undercurrent of Marine Corps Drill Sergeant.

Whipping out her measuring tape and draping samples over her shoulder, she stood there, hands on hips, unimpressed by my naked embarrassment. "See that? See THAT!" she hissed, while poking an index finger forcefully at the springy center of the contraption she had just stuffed me into. "You need a bigger cup!" she cackled triumphantly.

That was the memory that zipped through my brain when retired-but-back-as-a-volunteer-nurse Betty bounced into our plastic surgery consult at UVA, carrying a big basket of implants for me to shop and choose. Bill and I looked at each other with half a laugh and half a horror--this had to be the most surreal moment we have ever shared.

Nurse Betty (who was very nice, but also a bit of a drill sergeant in her matter-of-fact practicality), efficiently snapped a sports bra up under my arms near my collar bone, pulled my t-shirt over it and started stuffing in what appeared to be clear water balloons. Then she started bouncing them, flicking them with her finger and saying things like, "What do you think? Too big? Too small? I think that one's too small for your frame, let's go a little bigger, you can handle a 400, maybe even a 450 would be better?" She kept up a steady patter of boob-talk--"too squishy? Too heavy? That looks nice dear, I think that's just perfect for you, what do you think?"

OMG, I think I thought, this is the most bizarre thing I've ever been a part of. Where's Rod Serling, this can't be happening to me. I'm either going to burst out laughing or burst out crying, I don't know which. Either would offend the poor dear Betty, who was doing her best to make this fun and not so awful. Besides, who gets to pick the perfect set?--we do! Hey Bill, come over here and pick your favorites!

In the meantime, Bill tried mightily to keep from even looking at this ridiculous process so he focused on the surgeon discussing the various characteristics of saline versus silicone and the engineering specifications of each. "I like the silicone," said the surgeon, "it's just a better-made product, and sturdier too." Now Bill was trying not to laugh too. In the end we came up with a minimum (don't want to go smaller than) and a maximum (wouldn't want to go more than), and by this time we were all laughing pretty hysterically--what else can you do? I just wanted to get out of the room before it devolved into implant-tossing.

The resident also told us that new reconstruction technologies were being thought up all the time. By the time these will need to be replaced (10-15 years), he's hoping that his new idea will be the standard: He'll liposuction out all your flab from belly, thighs and butt, and then blow it back into your chest like household insulation! Now there's something I can look forward to!