It's kind of eye opening to see that just one of my knockers was bigger than Eli's 5 year old head. A HUMAN HEAD.
Now that I've dropped more than 50 pounds, my poor breasts have lost all their will to live. After being pumped full, stretched to their capacity and then had all of their life-giving fat fitnessized out of them, they've given up... rather, given down.
It is not easy for me to show this, and perhaps it's not something you'd like to see, but below is a photograph of my sad sacks in their natural state, hovering mere inches above my belly button (which is located right under that second wrinkle in my shirt).
Remember that song "Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro?" While though I've never tried, I am quite confident that I could, in fact, tie these in a knot.. if not a bow.
The problem now lies in the fact that even though I have managed to shrink my ladies to the size I've always wanted to be, their vessels are still hanging around (literally) and I'm reduced to the same inflated bra sizes just to hold the skin that will never leave.
This Sunday, I'm having dinner with my sister who has had both a breast reduction, as well as "alternate" augmentation after losing a grand amount of weight. We're going to discuss her plastic surgeon and my possibility of *truly* having the body I've always wanted by having a lift with a very small impant for perkiness. I've accepted (and appreciate) the fact that I will never have mile-long gams or a cute little butt (I settled on a cute big butt), but I do not accept, at under 30 years old, having the breasts of my 93 year old grandma.
I've mostly always been against it, but as I become a "real" adult, someone who knows who they are and knows what they want, I believe more and more that it's your body; if you want to screw it up, go ahead, as long as it's for YOU and not for THEM.
What's your take?