I am happier and happier each and every day. With not having breasts, that is. Surgery was not some big panacea; it didn’t fix my relationships, job, writing, or eating issues. I’m still not talking to my father. I still can’t focus at work. I still stress about my book. I still eat two bowls of cereal in the morning and two before bed. However, sometimes when I’m walking down the street, I want to leap into the air and click my heels together. Sometimes I break out into a spontaneous smile–For. No. Reason. My baseline quality of life level moved from “Getting By” to “Glad To Be Here.” It is truly a bizarre experience to have nothing and everything change. It’s kind of like playing the same note in a different octave.
A friend once told me that after his surgery, his comfort with himself increased exponentially. I don’t think I understood the power, or the true meaning, of that word, “exponential.” I rarely understand words. It helps when I do math. I started with a very small number in the single-digits, 9, and did some simple calculations: 9 + 9 = 18 and 9 * 9 = 81. Then I took out a calculator to deal with exponents. 9 to the 9th power = 387,420,489 (feel free to check my math). So, basically, if I was a 9 on the comfortable scale before and said that has increased exponentially, which it has, I’d be 387 million times more comfortable.
I cannot stop shopping. It doesn’t matter whether it’s my lunch break during work, or I’m on my way to meet friends for dinner, or I’m late for an appointment, a store will kidnap me. And that’s on a good day. On bad days, I drop what I’m doing, go to American Apparel, and buy tight shirts. Sometimes, I send out text confessions when I feel particularly guilty about my purchases, like the time I bought a charcoal brown V-neck wool sweater from Brooks Brothers. (My friend eased my concerns by texting back: I just bought Diesel jeans). Once I texted, ”I loooooove to shop.” My friend replied, “…like every other American.” That one made me pause, and not because of a distaste for our culture of consumption. This is it, I thought to myself, I’m finally like everyone else. I’m human. It’s moments like those that make me realize how much I was missing out on before.
I also have to shop because none of my tops fit me anymore. They look like muumuus. All of a sudden, I’m really puny and scrawny. I had been going for the teenage boy look, but now that I have the chest of an eleven year old, it’s harder. I hope the pedophiles stay away. The other day I showed someone my chest (I cannot stop showing my chest, either) and I said, “Don’t I look like an eight year old?” (The age drops every time). “No, no,” he said. “You have the chest of a Mission hipster.” I’m not sure which is better.
I’ve also recently fallen in love with the white undershirt: Hanes t-shirts and Jockey wifebeaters. When I had breasts, there was nothing worse than wearing a transparent shirt through which I could see the round curvature of saggy flesh. Now that I don’t have them, there is nothing better than the soft white cotton clinging to my flat chest. I have all my undershirts neatly stacked in the same spot in my drawer where my bras used to be. It’s so cool.
Pictures soon.
