I feel like my last post could use some clarification. Hence this post won’t make much sense outside of the context of that one.
I Don’t Hate Women. I mean to say, I don’t hate breasts. In fact, in the course of my research, I’ve probably looked at more of them in the past few weeks than the average male sees in a day of porn surfing. And I appreciate a well-shaped pair as much as anyone. Just not on me.
I Don’t Hate Men. However, somewhat predictably, they tend to take the news a little harder than women. When asked if he’d still love me without boobs, my good friend Gerry responded, “75% of our relationship is about boobs.” (It isn’t. And if it is, I guess he’d better start growing some.) (His other sage advice was “I think you should keep the nips.”)
The only way I can think to illustrate it to men is, imagine having testicles that could fill a C cup. Now imagine such gargantuan genitalia beyond it being a status symbol of your studliness. Imagine the day-to-day reality of lugging them around, trying to find pants that fit, what they’d look like when gravity and age get the best of you and they start stretching and drooping. Not so great anymore, are they? (Back to Gerry, who eventually admitted, “I sure wouldn’t want breasts.” Thank you. Neither do I.)
Female breasts are sexualized by our culture to the point of sacredness. Men’s aren’t, creating an irritating double standard where a large man with tits bigger than mine can parade around shirtless, but Janet Jackson’s nipple pops out once and the whole world loses its mind. Am I destroying my womanhood by removing my boobs? I’d like to think I have more to offer than that. So does any woman.
I Don’t Make This Decision Lightly Or Thoughtlessly. Just because I’m announcing this rather suddenly doesn’t mean I haven’t given it any thought. I realize it’s not like getting a haircut. I’ve wished for this for years, as I stated, and I only think it has become possible due to the transgender community breaking outside the box and blazing the trail. I owe them an enormous debt of gratitude, as well as surgeons who have taken the next logical step and decided one doesn’t have to transition fully to want a flat chest (just like one doesn’t have to want to be a duck to have duck lips).
I fear that all these childhood photos I’m sharing create the impression I’m trying to relive it or something Freudian like that. Not at all. It’s just the last time I looked the way I want to look and I enjoy seeing them.
When I said “my heart had committed, ignoring my head,” I was quite serious. It’s a big chunk of money to blow on something that isn’t strictly “necessary.” What if my 18-year-old Honda dies and I need a new car, or some other unforeseen expense pops up? And of course all surgery carries risk, so to undergo a procedure that isn’t medically required also might be borrowing trouble. This is what my head says. My heart says, “Screw you, this is our dream come true.”
I spent half a day worrying if being boobless would make me look like a freak. Then I realized keeping them would only be trying to appear a certain way for other people. I’ve never worried about that before and I’m not about to start now. The only opinions that really matter are mine and Tery’s (like any good spouse, all she wants is my happiness. And, at this point, to please stop talking about my boobs).
Besides, who would you rather see walking towards you on the street, an oddly flat chested woman, or this person?
Telling people I’m doing this is harder than coming out as bi. I realize it’s an extraordinarily unusual way to feel. But I have found a very few other souls who share my feelings, and for that I’m also grateful (don’t worry, gentlemen, there’s no vast percentage planning this. Womanhood is mostly safe). There’s a tiny movement of individuals calling themselves “neutrois,” or gender neutral. I’m not sure I would go that far. I feel definitely female. For me it’s just about aesthetics, not redefining myself completely.
Where I Am Now: I did call my insurance company just in case. I tried to phrase it as a negotiation, “I’m sure you guys don’t want to pay for expensive MRIs every year,” but of course the system doesn’t work like that. I honestly didn’t expect it to, but in retrospect I am a little incensed. I save them lots of money, what with not needing birth control, living a healthy lifestyle and not having any major illnesses. They damn well better pay for everything else I need from now on.
So it’s a large amount of money to come up with. I’m getting some ducks in a row with my credit before I start applying in earnest. Meanwhile I figure if I’m spending thousands, I should shop around a little. I have another consult at the end of April with Dr. Paul Steinwald, a big shot surgeon from Chicago relocated to Denver who apparently specializes in top surgery, even has a section of his website devoted to it. I’m praying his fee is a little lower, but if it’s comparable I’ll probably stick with him anyway. He’s got a whole photo gallery of his work, and I really like what I see.
Basically just a lot of waiting, which anyone who knows me can testify is not my forté. But the minute I get a surgery date, I’m going to walk around doing this: