Madame Sagsalot says No Thanks

This morning I was laying on the couch with my belly exposed. Shane was standing up next to me, picking up my loose skin with his prehensile toes like some kind of demented little monkey.

I have been hearing a lot about saggy boobs and tummies lately. Many of my nursing pals are concerned about how the girls will look when after the baby is done sucking the life out of them. At least one of my non-nursing friends said she also has some serious southward migration. But don't worry, ladies, your secrets are safe with me! You have my personal guarantee that no one will be outed on Stories From Korea.

I've seen this topic on some of my favorite blogs recently, too. They have much more clever metaphors than I could come up with, like pudding in a picket fence, or bread pudding in a thimble.

My understanding is that the reason for the hated droopage is pregnancy, not breastfeeding. But maybe it's just gravity and time. How to figure this one out? I know! All I have to do is find someone normal, of approximately my own age, who has not been pregnant or surgically modified who will show me her boobs for my little scientific experiment. The data would be better if I could find five or six of these someones. The line forms to the left, ladies. Yeah, that's what I thought.

I'm a little surprised, though, by how many people have had or are seriously considering a surgical solution, in the form of a 'lift and tuck'. None of my beeswax, of course. While I think it's outrageous to expect a 30ish to 40ish mom to have the body of a childless teenager and I would like to see acceptance of women's actual bodies, I'm pretty sure it's not going to happen anytime soon. Because of this, I can understand why someone might want seek a solution to what our culture considers a problem. But surgery? I have had two c-sections, and while that is not a minor surgery, it is a very simple one: They make a small incision, take out a small human, and sew you back up. After two, I am left with a numb spot the size of a small saucer, a scar that burns occasionally for no apparent reason, and an inability to do a sit-up, in addition to my two small humans. My understanding is that a lift and tuck requires large incisions, and some serious rooting around in your innards. The aftermath is probably pretty unappealing, even if everything goes swimmingly, and perhaps largely unanticipated. But not by me.

So, I say to Dr. 90210 and his foolishly unappreciative minions: 'No, thanks. I'll take the droopy orbs and the poochy pouch that Anne LaMott so charmingly, and accurately, likens to a soft puppy laying next to me. You can keep your perky boobs, your fillet knife, your damaged nerves, your scars, your MRSA, and your ludicrously unrealistic expectations.'