The Boob Machine
How I blew $1K and learned to like my body
I had legitimate boobs — once. In third grade, I was ready neither for them nor the armpit hair that sprang from nowhere. Boasting a cup size while my friends wore training bras was my sole consolation during biological mayhem.
Within a year or two, my classmates caught up. By eighth grade, they‘d flown past me.
I was confused and frustrated. I’d gotten fuzzier, but not bustier. Every morning, I checked to see if that second cup had arrived.
By my 18th birthday, I was still five feet tall and a 34A. It was time to face it: The B cup wasn’t happening.
Everywhere I turned, I felt inadequate. Before filters and Instagram, the 2000s weren’t kind to the flat-chested. Gisele and busty MTV dancers reigned. Even Gwen, my unapologetic 90s goddess, had reportedly gone under the knife. Tatas were everywhere.
My lack of proportion made me even more self-conscious. As a unicorn white girl with a butt, I’m used to be uncomfortably conspicuous. At my thinnest, I was a 34–24–WHOA.
Even if the butt attention was complimentary, it didn’t compensate for flatness. I was still a macabre pear. A disgusting freak.
That warped image inspired my boob mission. While other kids bought clothes, I invested in Wonderbras and their imitations. I boasted padding of all kinds: foam, water, silicone, gel — you name it.
My then-boyfriend would roll his eyes at my “shield” bras, preferring a more natural approach. At the time, I ignored him. If I wore them, no one would know the hideous truth. Dorky, flat me couldn’t strut her stuff.
The day eventually came where fooling others wasn’t enough. Without padding, it was still itty bitty me vs. thunder thighs.
It was time for the real deal.
I already knew some of my options. Implants were too expensive, and I wasn’t keen on foreign objects in my body. Hormone creams screamed bad decision. The pills from China were supposed to cause cancer.
After perusing everything, I finally found a solution. A system, to be exact.
It was basically a boob vacuum machine. According to the hype, the suction could stimulate breast tissue growth of at least a cup size. On my petite frame, that was prospect for celebration. There was no pain and no recovery, and all the before-and-afters looked unretouched.
After six months of saving, I was ready to commit.
I told only close friends and family. My boyfriend thought I was nuts, but he was supportive. Surprisingly, my mom’s reaction was similar.
The day after I told my mom, my father called me from his office. Back then, he never called from work. Something terrible had happened.
“Beth…”
An eternal pause followed. I was already crying, sure that someone was dead.
“…Mom told me about your surgery. Are you sure you really want to do this?”
It took a few beats of stunned silence to remember that my dad misses salient details — especially from my mom.
“No Dad, it’s not surgery! It’s a machine! No cuts!”
The next pause was worse. Finally, he breathed again.
“…Ahh, OK, errr…oh.”
And, for reasons of profound mutual embarrassment, that was our last conversation about that.
Two weeks later, the package arrived. It was a glossy black cardboard box with an even glossier pink interior. I tore it open with glee.
A thousand bucks is a lot when you’re 19. For that money, I expected a top-line plastic surgeon’s device.
What I got instead was a contraption destined for exhibition at MOMA. In a self-contained cardboard drying rack sat two enormous plastic globes. The wider “base” of each was lined with an inch of silicone adhesive. There was also a gray beeper-like device and Y-shaped plastic tubing. Last, but not least, I unearthed a black mesh vest. Think somewhere between medical-grade and bargain-bin BDSM.
The instructions were straightforward. After a special disinfecting process, I’d adhere the two domes. Next, I’d attach the two suction tubes to the openings in the domes, just beneath the “nipple,” before attaching the neck of the tubing to the beeper. Tucked safely in a cleavage pocket on the black vest, the beeper would power the suction while filtering out sweat and oil. After zipping up the vest, I’d be ready to go.
Thus began the ritual that consumed 10 hours nightly for the next 12 weeks.
For a lazy teenager, it was asking a lot. Every morning, I had to wash the domes carefully with antibacterial bar soap. In the evening, I had to wash my entire torso. I had to then, very carefully, rinse out the filter in the beeper, ensuring it didn’t tilt. Everything had to air dry. Towel fibers, and any fibers, were now sworn enemies.
Around 8:00 p.m., I’d slink into my room, concealed under a massive tee shirt. Though my family knew the deal, I slithered out only when necessary. If I looked ridiculous before, me with E-cup domes was ludicrous.
Falling asleep was a project unto itself. The fetal position is generally my go-to. My short arms and the alien globes made that all but impossible. Instead, I slept coffin-style like Boobra the Entombed. My lumbar area throbbed.
When I finally succumbed, my normal night terrors went wild. I don’t know if it was my changed body position or the suction pulling at my brain, but things got weird. John Malkovich horse pope weird.
The worst thing was malfuctioning mid-REM. Every few nights I’d awake to a glooping sound, a sweaty-but-lighter boob, and imminent, noise-prompted dread.
It wasn’t the smoke detector. It wasn’t a fevered disco nightmare.
It was the damn beeper yelling at me that I’d lost suction.
In these cases, I would gingerly reposition the straying dome, dripping with condensation. I’d crank up the air, trying to prevent more sweat. Some nights, it would happen at least three times.
Aggravation aside, I was seeing results — albeit temporary ones. An hour after removal, I was a small C. After a few hours, I was a small B. By 3:00 p.m., I had deflated.
It wasn’t permanent, but I was encouraged. According to the pamphlet, breast tissue often grew after the process was completed. I was confident I would blossom last-minute.
Toward the last month, my zeal got a little too intense. I became snappish, yelling at everyone to mind their towel fluff. I even insisted on lugging the equipment to an overnight theme park trip. The entire time, I worried about the domes melting in the car.
The last day finally arrived. My first night sleeping without the machine was amazing. I flopped all over the place, and didn’t see any John Malkovich horses.
In the morning, I practically clambered over myself to get to the mirror. I jumped. I shimmied. I shoved ’em around for a few.
Not a damn thing. After waiting a week, I knew it wasn’t happening. Maybe there were too many fibers. Many I’d slept through hours of suction loss because I was too exhausted to hear the beeper. Maybe it had melted at the theme park.
I even checked the forums to see if I’d been duped. Apparently, some women have results while others just don’t.
Whatever the reason, I was devastated. After months of dedication, I was still unlucky and flat.
The letdown dimmed my fervor until my late 20s when I read about the minimally invasive fat transfer technique. Though he supported me, my husband protested that he liked my natural shape. (Notice a pattern?) Lucky for him, the 14K required definitely wasn’t happening.
After a rough stint of unemployment, I realized that the underwires I wore religiously were super uncomfortable. I started wearing bralettes or minimally padded bras, just around the house. Slowly, I graduated to leaving the house in them. At first, I was terrified, figuring I’d revert to the total paranoia I’d had during the boob machine era.
Instead, nothing happened. And, in the meantime, when everyone was busy not caring about my boobs whatsoever, I finally determined whether I liked my breasts.
They had their merits. They were only sort of lopsided, not super lopsided. I liked that my nipples didn’t point in opposite cardinal directions. I liked that my stretch marks were only a little shimmery.
I couldn’t believe it, but I actually liked my boobs.
Appreciating my breasts has inspired me to appreciate other women. I don’t judge or envy women who’ve gotten breast augmentation or who have naturally big breasts. For me, boob-induced back pain and underboob sweat are physical impossibilities. I’ve felt terrible enough when my butt gets me catcalled. I can’t imagine how demeaned and invalidated I’d feel if someone talked to my chest instead of my face.
But the best side effect of conquering my fear was allover confidence. I no longer have a meltdown if I forget eyeliner. If a little orange peel peeks is visible under my skirt, oh well. If people have a problem, they don’t have to look.
It turns out that my ex’s shield comment was spot on. In wanting to change myself, I focused only on what I was hiding, not what I was gaining. I was so afraid of others’ opinions that I never gave my real self a chance.
If that wacky boob machine had worked, I’d never have made such strides toward accepting my body. For that alone, it was worth every penny.
The Boob Machine
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