Tits

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There exist a handful of societal issues that I sometimes have trouble thinking about with my big head, as opposed to my little head. Breast enhancement surgery is undoubtedly one of them.

     On the one hand, there’s me sitting at my desk as I am right now, thinking about breast enhancement surgery and concluding resolutely that it’s nothing short of fucked up. For starters, have you ever seen how they’re done? Summing up the operation, the surgeon makes a small incision on the bottom of each breast and then he squeezes a way-too-fucking-large-for-the-hole silicone cushion into them (funny in a sense that a way of making people more beautiful is very much the opposite of it).

     On the other hand, big tits! That is indeed the compelling argument that my lizard brain (i.e. the ‘old’ part of my brain that is responsible for everything primal) keeps bringing up. Imagine living in a world where all women have big breasts. Wouldn’t that be absolutely… um … terrible? See, it is only once I stop myself from vividly imagining such a world, i.e. once enough blood has flowed back to my brain for me to produce more or less coherent reflections that it becomes blatantly obvious that: if everything is special, then nothing is. Perhaps I should explain what exactly I mean in economic terms (the economy is after all a crucial factor in the matter of artificial beautification): Suppose the assumption that big breasts are a kind of currency that increases women’s performance on the dating market is true. If women suddenly all have big breasts, then this will inevitably lead to, excuse the pun, inflation. Big breasts will no longer be a selling point, meaning society will have to direct the surgeon’s scalpel to a different, as yet untouched part of the female anatomy. And where do we go after tits? The labia of course, you dunce!

     Until very recently I did not know that vaginal rejuvenation surgery was a thing. I have to say I think it’s pretty freaky. The word ‘rejuvenation’ alone makes me a bit uneasy about this kind of procedure. I mean, exactly how young do we want vulvas to look? Twenty-nine? Eighteen? Twelve? I’m reminded of an ‘age-defying’ cream that promises to make people’s faces look five years younger. I always wondered what would happen if a four-year-old used it. Never mind.

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I am also reminded of a philosophical puzzle called the Ship of Theseus. The question at the heart of the puzzle is the following: how many/which parts of a ship can you replace before it is no longer the same ship? Considering how women are still identified with little more than their physical appearance to a depressingly high extent (much higher than it is the case for men; just consider how women’s bodies are used in adverts compared to men’s), I do wonder how many parts of a woman one could replace or alter before she is no longer the same woman. I mean the list of possible aesthetic surgery procedures is impressive and I’m sure that even if you only undergo a few of them you can end up looking like a completely different person. Just to list a few, there’s breast enhancement, breast lift, liposuction, buttock lift, thigh lift, arm lift, ‘Tummy Tuck’, brow lift, face lift, neck lift, nose surgery, facial implants, and I suppose it’s only a matter of time until we convince women that their little toes are all fucked and that they too need to be surgically improved.

     As far as I’m concerned, the bad thing here is not that aesthetic surgery exists. After all, every person should be free to do with their body whatever they want. The crux of the matter is that there should be no pressure to have one’s body artificially altered in order to live up to some unachievable ideal. And of course this point is not limited to surgery. It’s also clothes, shoes and make-up. Despite the fact that my little head is often very excited by women with sexy make-up, the substantial part of me is freaked out by the fact that women are expected to paint their faces every day just to make themselves prettier. And this is exactly why I, as a feminist, WILL NOT LET MY GIRLFRIEND WEAR MAKE-UP! (It’s a joke, just to be absolutely clear.)


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