~
BOOB JOB
My husband won’t let me fix my boobs.
As you can imagine, this caused a fight
about autonomy and agency and body image,
and whether boob jobs empower or disempower,
the disingenuousness of saying “you do you”
if he could take it back when I said,
“my body, my choice.”
“I don’t think you’re being fair,” he said.
After all, he would have said “you do you”
for a piercing, a hair color change, a tattoo.
But I would’ve appreciated some understanding
about the waistward progress of my girls
after nursing two kids and gaining fifty pounds,
and a quarter century of marriage
juggling home and career.
I began to daydream about my new boobs,
how Salma Hayek-y they would be,
so perky they would enter the room before I did,
an entourage but all in front,
Hello! Hello, everyone! They would say
and everyone’s eyes would say hell-ooooo,
and I wouldn’t be the saggy old bag any more.
By the time I went online to browse surgeons’ names
I was picking Oscar gowns and high-heeled shoes,
and though I’m not in the film industry
“I would like to thank the Academy”
was bubbling out of my giggly lips.
But then I looked up and saw his face,
the pinkish tinge around the rims of his eyes,
the unbelievable love written there
in every crease.
“If something bad were to happen
and I would’ve loved you anyway
without the surgery,
and you’re beautiful as you are,
it’ll be too sad,” he said,
the grammar of his words a minefield,
the tenor of them a meadow of gold.
And so I took his hand
and we went upstairs to sleep.
~
Cristina Legarda
Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to Bethesda, Maryland. She is now a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in America magazine, The Dewdrop, Plainsongs, FOLIO, Lucky Jefferson, HeartWood, Coastal Shelf, The Good Life Review, and others.