breast implants

If you ask my opinion on cosmetic breast implants, I will go off on an angry rant about how ridiculous it is that women with perfectly healthy, symmetrical, functional bodies are emotionally worked into a physical standard so unrealistic that they go stuffing saline solution into their busts. Ask me if I'd ever get them? Don't bet your life on it, unless a car wreck severs my left breast tomorrow.

...But what am I thinking in the dark, alone, at home, when there are no crowds, no one to debate with, and no one to stand tall-and-feminist-strong for?

I'm looking at my breasts and aching, Wouldn't it just be so much easier TO get implants? Wouldn't I /feel/ so much better- wouldn't it just be a total load-off? And in moments like these, when I fantasize about what it would be like to have fake plastic breasts, I realize how much energy I spend on NOT having fake plastic breasts: because the idea of having them sounds like the suggestion of releasing a cramped muscle. It sounds like, Hey, you don't have to hold your breath anymore.

When I imagine all the things I could do with the energy I now spend helping myself feel good about my natural breasts, I feel like I could /learn a new language/, /write a book/, /get fit/.