At the office Christmas party, I was the last one on the dance floor. Wearing a figure-hugging sequinned dress, I knew I dazzled from the envious looks of my female colleagues and the appreciative stares of the men.
In the past, I’ve worn a modest jacket over my festive outfits. But this year, aged 56, I finally had the confidence to go all out.
Why? Because nestled under those sparkly sequins was the best present I’ve ever given myself: a breast enlargement to take me from a 34A to a 34D.
And no, I didn’t do it for the sake of a man. This was purely about giving myself a confidence boost.
The impact of nursing two children, then the menopause, meant for the best part of my adult life my breasts looked tired and deflated – and I felt deflated with them.
So I couldn’t be happier with my late-life boob job. If only my female friends felt the same.
I’ve had everything from catty comments about looking like a showgirl to claims I’ve stolen a hospital bed from a deserving patient. One friend even said she’d no longer be able to leave her husband alone with me!
I honestly hadn’t predicted this response. My husband and children are happy for me. So why is it that other women have such strong opinions?
At 55, I decided the time had finally come to take action, writes VANESSA WILLOWS
After all, how many women of my age can honestly claim they’re completely satisfied with their cleavage?
I know that for a very long time I wasn’t.
My decision came after decades of unhappiness. I’ve always been fairly flat chested, the differences between me and my friends obvious since my teens, leaving me feeling absurdly jealous at times.
Before I had my children – the first at 28, the second at 30 – I was a 34B, but after each pregnancy ‘the girls’ shrivelled. By the time I’d finished breastfeeding I was a 34A. I felt extremely self-conscious of my ironing board profile and hated wearing anything low cut. There is only so much you can achieve with a Wonderbra and chicken fillets.
While I kept trim over the years with yoga and long dog walks, I could feel my body changing; I was putting on weight around my middle and was left feeling somewhat vulnerable about the ageing process. Once the menopause hit at 49, I changed my food intake to prevent further thickening. Yet overhauling my diet only made my top half seem even scrawnier.
So at 55, I decided the time had finally come to take action.
Granted, I’m not your typical boob job candidate. My husband and I are both very middle-class, I’ve worked for decades as a legal secretary, and I’ve never had any tweakments. But for years I’d put myself second as both a mum and an employee. I was determined to do something for myself.
I sat down with my husband earlier this year and explained my decision. Even though he isn’t a ‘boob man’, he was supportive, because he’s known how much I’ve longed for bigger breasts.
I hadn’t really discussed it with my friends; it felt too personal. I did tell two of my inner circle I was considering it, but judging by their reactions when they saw me post-op, I don’t think they believed me! If they had, I think they’d have done their best to talk me out of it.
Having withdrawn the money I needed from my private pension, I didn’t jump into things blindly; I wouldn’t be flying to Turkey. After two consultations, I paid £6,000 and was in and out the day of the operation.
I returned home wearing a post-operative bra. Still fairly swollen, everything was a lot bigger than I had anticipated.
But my recovery was textbook, and after six weeks I was able to slip into a beautiful bias cut dress with spaghetti straps. I felt like a goddess, and loved the confidence boost it gave me. My husband loved my new figure, too.
Yet while I was delighted, I can’t say the same for my friends.
Of the two I had originally told, one told me I looked like Dita Von Teese (I think it was a compliment). The other joked she wouldn’t be leaving her husband alone in the room with me, which left me extremely hurt. And ever since, I’ve been acutely aware of a subtle distancing between us.
At my yoga studio, I could feel the crackling atmosphere of other women talking about me. Eventually it left me feeling so uncomfortable that I moved to another studio.
But the encounter that upset me the most was with an old school friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We’d met for coffee, and when she commented on my chest she assumed it was as due to a breast reconstruction following cancer. I put her straight, saying I’d never had cancer, and had chosen to have a breast enlargement.
In a flash, her sympathy turned to hostility, accusing me of vainly taking up hospital beds for women who needed such surgery, despite the fact it was a private procedure.
Her rationale was ridiculous, yet inexplicably I felt guilty, not to mention rather upset.
I can only put the mixed reactions I’ve had down to a toxic cocktail of jealousy and judgment about the fact I haven’t ‘accepted’ my midlife figure.
Yet it seems so hypocritical; if I’d had Botox, or was using weight loss jabs, I don’t think my friends would be nearly so critical. Perhaps it’s because we assume that while women have Botox or want to lose weight for themselves, they’d only have a breast enlargement for the sake of a man.
Well, they couldn’t be more wrong. For the first time in decades, I feel fully content with the figure I have. And come January, I’ve booked a winter sunshine break so I can get as much enjoyment as possible out of my new bikini body. If my husband has a good time, that’s just a bonus.
- Vanessa Willows is a pseudonym
- As told to Samantha Brick
