At the office Christmas party, I was the last one on the dance floor. Wearing a sequin dress that hugged my figure, I knew I was dazzled by the envious glances of my female colleagues and the appreciative glances of the men.
In the past, I wore a modest jacket over my holiday outfits. But this year, at age 56, I finally had the confidence to go all out.
Because? Because underneath those sparkly sequins was the best gift he had ever given me: a breast augmentation that would take me from a 34A to a 34D.
And no, I didn’t do it for the sake of a man. It was just about giving me a boost of confidence.
The impact of breastfeeding two children and then menopause meant that for most of my adult life my breasts looked tired and deflated, and I felt deflated about them.
So I couldn’t be happier with my old age boob job. If only my friends felt the same.
I’ve received everything from malicious comments about looking like a showgirl to claims that I stole a hospital bed from a deserving patient. One friend even said she couldn’t leave her husband alone with me anymore!
I honestly hadn’t predicted this response. My husband and children are happy for me. So why do other women have such strong opinions?
At 55, I decided the time had finally come to act, writes VANESSA WILLOWS
After all, how many women my age can honestly say that they are completely satisfied with their cleavage?
I know that for a long time I wasn’t.
My decision came after decades of unhappiness. I’ve always been quite flat, the differences between my friends and me are obvious since my teenage years, which makes me feel absurdly jealous sometimes.
Before I had my children – the first at 28, the second at 30 – I was a 34B, but after each pregnancy ‘the girls’ withered. When I finished breastfeeding, I was 34A. I felt extremely self-conscious about the profile of my ironing board and hated wearing anything low-cut. There’s a lot you can accomplish with a Wonderbra and chicken tenders.
While I stayed in shape over the years with yoga and long dog walks, I could feel my body changing; I was gaining weight around my waist and felt somewhat vulnerable to the aging process. Once menopause hit at age 49, I changed my food intake to prevent it from thickening further. However, changing my diet only made my upper half look even thinner.
So, at age 55, I decided the time had finally come to act.
Of course, I’m not your typical breast surgery candidate. My husband and I are middle class, I have worked for decades as a legal secretary and have never had any adjustments. But for years I put myself second as a mother and as an employee. I was determined to do something for myself.
I sat down with my husband earlier this year and explained my decision. Although he is not a “boob man”, he supported me, because he knows how much I have longed for bigger breasts.
I hadn’t really discussed it with my friends; It felt too personal. I told two members of my inner circle that I was considering it, but judging by their reactions when they saw me after the operation, I don’t think they believed me! If they had, I think they would have done everything they could to dissuade me from doing it.
After withdrawing the money I needed from my private pension, I didn’t jump into things blindly; I wouldn’t fly to Türkiye. After two consultations I paid £6,000 and was in and out on the day of the operation.
I came home wearing a post-op bra. Still quite swollen, the whole thing was much bigger than I had anticipated.
But my recovery was textbook, and after six weeks I was able to fit into a beautiful bias-cut dress with spaghetti straps. I felt like a goddess and loved the confidence boost it gave me. My husband also loved my new figure.
However, although 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 that she wouldn’t leave her husband alone in the room with me, which left me very hurt. And since then I have been acutely aware of a subtle rift between us.
In my yoga studio, I could feel the crackling atmosphere of other women talking about me. In the end I felt so uncomfortable that I moved to another studio.
But the encounter that bothered me the most was with an old friend from school whom I hadn’t seen in a while. We met for coffee and when he commented about my breast he assumed it was due to breast reconstruction after cancer. I told her clearly that I had never had cancer and that I had chosen to have my breasts augmented.
In an instant, her sympathy turned to hostility, accusing me of vainly taking up hospital beds for women who needed that type of surgery, even though it was a private procedure.
His reasoning was ridiculous, but I inexplicably felt guilty, not to mention quite upset.
I can only attribute the mixed reactions I’ve had to a toxic cocktail of jealousy and judgment over the fact that I haven’t “accepted” my middle-aged figure.
However, it seems very hypocritical; If I had had Botox or was using weight loss injections, I don’t think my friends would have been as critical. Maybe it’s because we assume that while women have Botox or want to lose weight for themselves, they would only enlarge their breasts for the sake of a man.
Well, they couldn’t be more wrong. For the first time in decades I feel completely satisfied with the figure I have. And come January, I’ve booked a winter holiday in the sun so I can make the most 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