I know there will be people who disagree with me. I know there will be people who read this and think I’m being superficial. I understand that it seems vapid to start a chapter on confidence and ground it in physical appearance—in how you look instead of how you feel—but I don’t think the alternative would be helpful. At least it wouldn’t have been helpful for me back in the day. I read so many books that told me to look inside or pray or say mantras or affirmations to make myself feel more confident. I did it for years as a way of boosting myself up. But I honestly never felt the part of a confident woman until I learned how to look the part of a confident woman. And the crazy thing is, my version of confidence probably looks nothing like yours. The point is not that you replicate someone else’s ideal. The point is that you figure out your own.
I wish this were a picture book so I could show you any shot of me from basically 2003 to 2016. In fairness to the Rachel of the past, I do feel like I improved over time. But it was also slow going and vaguely tragic, and it was entirely because I didn’t know how to dress for my body type or do my hair or my makeup. Not knowing how made me feel insecure, but I would never actually admit to that. Instead I loudly proclaimed that I wasn’t “that kind of girl.” I would swipe on a little eyeliner and some lip balm and throw my air-dried, frizzy hair in a bun, all while militantly telling myself that women who cared so much about their appearance were airheads who were focused on the wrong things.
So why was it, then, that every single time I had to get my hair and makeup done for press or TV, I felt like a hundred million dollars? How come I would plan date nights with my husband whenever I knew I was going to have makeup on from a shoot? How come I always felt better, had more energy and a better attitude, every time I felt like I looked great? Because when you like the way you look, you’ll love the way you feel.
This was a big learning curve for me as a grown-up, and it all started with a boob job.
It’s true. I did get a boob job. It’s sort of a crazy thing to admit, but I’m doing it. I’m sure some of you are like, “Good for you, girl.” That’s everyone’s dream postbaby, and some of you are like, “You’re an embarrassment to feminists everywhere!” But I did it, and since I always try to be honest about the things I go through in my life, I’m telling you about it now.
I guess, let’s start with why.
Hmmm . . . how do I explain this delicately? When I got pregnant the first time, I had lovely little B-cups. I loved them, and they loved me back. After the baby was born, the milk came in, and those lovely Bs became E-cups. No, that’s not a typo. That’s a cup size. E . . . as in Elephant . . . as in Enormous . . . as in Yowza!
So the twins went from little to big and then back again. After that round I gave birth to two more children, which means that whole E for everyone rating—it happened two more times! After my last son, Ford, was born, I started exercising more and eating better, and I maintained a healthier weight, which was awesome. But that weight meant that my boobs, which were already in a little bit of a sad state, became . . . nothing. I don’t mean that they were worn out. I don’t mean that they looked tired. I mean that there was nothing there, no filler, no cushion. The cup, in this case, was definitely half-empty. So where before I’d never really thought about my breasts much, now I noticed them all the time.
I hated to wear a bathing suit. I hated to go without a bra or, even worse, topless in front of my husband. Mostly, I hated how focused I was on something so trivial. Dave never said anything. He approached them just like he always had, with reverence and the unfettered joy of a straight man seeing boobs, but my issues got worse. Honestly, I’m not one to wallow for long. I’m a fixer. And while I can’t fix everything, this was something I definitely could do something about. I decided I was going to have them lifted back up.
I found a doctor who was awesome and who also has kids, so she totally got what I was looking for. I made Dave go with me to the appointment, and I asked a million questions, which mostly had to do with whether I’d die on the table like the mom from Clueless and whether I’d lose sensitivity (because that might almost be as bad as death). They took some pictures for my chart, which, let me tell you, is freaking abysmal! Nobody needs to see their sad little boobs through the lens of an HD camera under intense lighting.
I ended up choosing the smallest implant they make, because every time I tried on the bigger sizes, I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be someone new; I just wanted to feel like my old self. And, as Dave put it when I asked him what he thought, “You’re beautiful no matter what you do. Just choose something that makes you feel good.” Smart man.
We scheduled the appointment for surgery. I was so excited, but as the day got closer and closer, I started to freak out. Not about whether to do it, but about whether I’d live. I had three beautiful children at the time, and surgery is scary. What if something happened to me because of my own vanity? Can you imagine what a horrible legacy I’d leave behind?
“Oh, my mom was super healthy, but she wanted to look good in a tank top and now she’s dead!”
I made my friends promise that, in the case of my untimely demise, they would help perpetuate the myth for my children that I’d died in a Doctors Without Borders mission. Never mind that I’m not a doctor; in this made-up past I was much more valiant than I actually am.
The morning of the surgery, I was a mess. I started freaking out as soon as I got into the room with all the pre-op stuff, and Dave had to come sit with me. It didn’t help that my anesthesiologist turned out to be blond, tan, and basically a very, very young Ken doll. Like, whatever age you have to be to have just made it out of medical school, that’s what we were dealing with here. His name was Dr. Aiden, he said. He’d spent the morning surfing, he said.
Surfing.
All I could think while they wheeled me to the room was, Oh, precious Savior, this surfing child-doctor is going to see my boobs.
Sometimes when I get nervous, I manage those nerves by talking nonstop, so I was chattering nervously when the model-doctor put the IV into my arm. That IV, though I didn’t realize it at the time, was filled with some really strong drugs. I remember telling the assembled medical personnel that no anesthesiologist should look like this guy. He was supposed to be bald and sixty-plus years old . . . he should look like Danny DeVito. I remember all the nurses and doctors laughing at me, and I remember thinking, Shut up, Rach, shut up! but I was too far gone.
I could not shut up.
The last thing I remember saying before slipping off into oblivion was, “Please, Dr. Aiden, whatever you do, don’t look at my destroyed boobs!”
Not. Even. Kidding.
And then I woke up, and . . . I lived! I was so excited to be alive that I didn’t even mind that it felt like my chest had gone twelve rounds with a prizefighter. Between the anxiety and pre-op and the unexpected presence of a ridiculously good-looking anesthesiologist to make me more nervous, not to mention the recovery time, it was all quite an ordeal. But, in the end, I absolutely thought it was worth it and I still do. Will you think so too? Maybe, maybe not. I understand that not everyone will agree with my choices, but that’s okay. The point was that it was something I wanted to do for myself, something I knew would make me feel more confident. I decide how I want to look, and when I made the choice to change something in such a drastic and permanent way, it made me start to consider other things I hadn’t before.
Remember, for years I’d told myself that women who cared about their looks were artificial and vapid. But now I’d done possibly the most artificial thing ever: I’d had someone put the medical equivalent of a balloon inside my body in an attempt to feel more confident. And you know what? It worked.
I loved my new boobs! Five years later, and I still love them.
But now I needed to reconcile the story I’d always told myself with the new reality I was facing. I had done something purely for vanity’s sake, but I didn’t feel like a vain person. I didn’t sit around all day obsessing over my looks, and I certainly didn’t judge people for theirs. So if it was possible to still be the same woman who was so focused on personal growth—on improving what was on the inside—then could it be possible that my former beliefs about how valuable, or not valuable, our outside appearances are were founded more in my insecurities than in actual evidence?