If Bigger Breasts Are the Answer, What's the Question?

I'm a big fan of plastic surgery. Without it, I think I might feel like a freak. While Voltaire made excellent mileage out of a woman with one buttock, I don't think it would be much fun to be her, or, as I would be without plastic surgery, a woman with just one breast. You could, I suppose, stuff your bra with something round and squashy, but I prefer not to. I prefer to put on a bikini and look relatively normal. I think most of us prefer to look relatively normal.

Operations are, however, horrible. They're painful and unpleasant. The body isn't designed to be whacked with great doses of anaesthetic, and then sliced and diced and stitched. It does its best to deal with it, but it takes its toll. I've had four operations in the past seven years, and I'm extremely grateful for anaesthetics that work and surgeons who know what they're doing. I wouldn't be alive without them. I'm extremely grateful, too, for the plastic surgeon who chopped off half my stomach (though all my friends were offering theirs) and put it in the space just vacated by a breast. But I can't begin to understand how anyone with healthy breasts, or buttocks, or thighs, can take them anywhere near a surgeon's knife for reasons other than medical necessity.

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