Butts, Boobs, & Bunions Part I

I've just sat down to blog for the very first time and all I can think of is how full and sick I am from inhaling tons of pizza tonight. Also, the orthopedic boot on my left foot, needed for a second stress fracture, is bugging the shit out of me--I'm feeling bulky, thick and so uncomfortable. I think I'll go try on my bathing suits right now....... From as far back as I can remember, I’ve hated my figure.  I come from a long line of tough Irish farm women and the genes are strong.  My grandmother’s build was square and stocky and I received many of her physical traits: my legs have humongous muscles and my ass is flat and kind of low-hanging, a hindrance I like to refer to as “ass-challenged".  I’m forever trying to find ways to elongate my calves and tighten up my rump (think Brazilian butts) but my attempts have been futile.  Outside of calve-reduction surgery and butt transplants, I’ve exhausted all possibilities. 

The first time my Hulk-like calves were brought to my attention was in the 8^th grade.  I was dressed in my cheerleading uniform and one of the guys on the football team yelled across the lunchroom, “Oh my God, Kelly!  Look at the size of your calves! They are bigger than my thighs!” Thanks for the shout-out, jackass. Now granted, I certainly didn’t think I had a great figure but I also didn’t see myself as disfigured—at least not until this point.  I had absolutely no boobs, maybe a 34 A on a good day, and my legs felt like tree trunks to me.  From that point on I was very self conscious and wanted to do anything I could to remedy the issues at hand.  First, I started by stuffing my bra with cotton balls.  Not too much, just three on each side to give me “something".  I learned about this from reading “Are You There God, Its Me Margaret,” and it seemed like a winning idea and nobody would ever know.  Next, I moved onto dieting.  Why on earth I thought dieting would help me lose weight in my calve muscles is beyond me, but I gave it my all nonetheless. Moreover, I really wanted a pair of acid washed Guess jeans with the ankle zippers and up until this point, I couldn’t even get the f-ing things over my calves much less zipped shut.  It was totally bogus.

I didn’t know anything about dieting but I figured that I should probably consume less than 1000 calories per day in order to get the anticipated results, so I began drinking diet cokes and splitting king-sized Snickers bars into thirds and eating that throughout the day.  Sounded like a perfect meal plan to me.  After day 3 or so, I weighed myself and I’d lost 2 lbs so I decided to celebrate with a pizza and ice cream. Dieting wore me out and made me cranky and fussy so I decided to just complain about my figure versus actually try and do something about it.  Nothing seemed to work so why try?  This feeling continued throughout my teen years and on into college but then I started running and it seemed to help somewhat—at least with my weight. 

Unfortunately, I never received anything on top, at least not naturally, so when I turned 21 I decided that breast augmentation was the only way for me to go.  I remember coming home from college and telling my parents that I wanted a boob job; I was miserable with my flat chest and having some cans would also balance out my ham hock legs.  I was positively desperate and if they really loved me they’d cough up the $5,000 needed in order to make their one and only daughter both happy and busty. 

The guilt trip and tears of frustration worked, I could have won an Oscar for Best Dramatic Actress, and in December of 1991 I went from a 34 A to a 36 C-just like that. Life was good and I couldn’t wait to show off these bad boys. Bathing suits? Tight tee-shirts? Fitted sweaters?  Bring it on!  Articles of clothing that had been my arch nemeses were now my best friends and you can forget bra shopping—that level of excitement made me pee in my pants.  It was almost too much.  It seemed I had done just about everything I could to celebrate my new rack; I was like a proud new mommy and would discuss said rack at any given opportunity. “Notice anything different about me?”… “Why yes, I did used to be flat.”….  “Uh-huh, that’s right—I got a boob job.”…..  “I know—they do look amazing don’t they?”… “Do you want to touch them?”  I was very open to sharing and I wanted the world to know how happy I was.  I got the chance to do so when I spent a year in Europe in 1994 and experienced the topless beaches…….I couldn’t wait to bronze my new breasts and experience the uninhibited empowerment of going topless….or so I thought….