Confession: Sometimes, I Fake It!!!!

Confession: Sometimes, I fake it!

I would like to take a moment and explain the Twinkie Law to you. All Hot-Minivan Moms know this law. We hate this law. We hate Twinkies even more. Mainly because we all were, in our dim, distant past, Twinkies. Now, we’re more like the Twinkie’s close-but-less-glamorous cousin, the Cup Cake.

Twinkie Law is a simple logic problem.

1. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible.

2. It is a fact that all men want to get laid as often as possible by the hottest woman they can.

3. It is a fact that men’s standard of beauty is defined by the nubile, 20-something with large breasts, puffy lips and shiny hair.

4. Therefore, all men, all of OUR men, the husbands of Hot Minivan Moms everywhere, really want a Twinkie: those soft-and-pretty on the outside, cream-filled 20-something women with their large breasts and youthful faces and glowing skin and nubile-non-child-bearing bodies. Those women who may lack any real substance or value but are a tempting and yummy forbidden treat.

Many of us, myself included, used to be Twinkies. And we caught our man. And after catching him, we married him and loved him and bore him children and our hair lost some of its shine and our bodies lost some of their nubile-ness and our skin dimmed with age and our breasts sagged and deflated.

And, if we’re the lucky ones, our men love us anyway. But we know, in the back of our minds (or in front of our faces, for men have never been subtle in their admiration of Twinkies), that our men are still slaves to the Twinkie Law.

Fortunately, we Hot Minivan Moms live in the modern age. If we decide we will NOT go gently into that good night, that darkness of drab mommiehood, that schlepy world of high-waisted jeans and roomy tee-shirts and unattractive wash-and-go-hair, if we decide to take back our Womanhood, our Beauty, our softness and mystery and sexiness, if we decide to tell the Time Bitch to BRING IT for we will win because we are REAL women of substance, not Twinkies who melt quickly and are soon forgotten, if we take up this good fight…thanks to wonderful beauticians and modern medicine, We Can!

So yes, after bearing my two beautiful children, I took a long look in the mirror. I realized that having children really is like a nuclear bomb going off in your body. So, like a veteran general, I assessed the damage and began the repairs. I joined a gym. I found a wonderful hairdresser who made my hair shiny and sleek…and a bit more blonde to hide the stupid gray. I got regular facials and exfoliated more often. And I was proud of the results.

Except for my breasts. I have always been small breasted, a barely-B on my best days. But I was perky and cute and, as a petite woman, fairly proportional. I’d always wished for big knockers, but was satisfied--and hardly lacking for admiration--as I was. But after two pregnancies and two years of breastfeeding, those barely-Bs were saggy, stretched out, misshapen barely-As with nipples that pointed in opposite directions. And no amount of money spent on WonderBras, MiracleBras or Spanx could fix them.

So I decided to get a boob job.

Yup. Rail away, ‘ye Femi-Naxis. Flash me your unshaven legs and saggy, no-bra breasts and tell me I have ruined the future of our daughters, erased women’s suffrage, given in to corporate marketing and BarbieBitch. And I will proudly stand tall and thrust out my full, perky breasts and show you my degrees and my family and my self-confident daughters and my loving partner of a husband and tell you I am happy and confident and proud.I believe in women’s equality. I demand it. And in a world where my health insurance covers Viagra and Cialis and other penile products but not birth control pills, I am asserting my equality by bringing the very symbol of my womanhood into glorious fullness.

I ordered my breasts from a catalog.

I mean, is modern medicine great or what? After 31 years, two children and countless bras, creams, well-tailored dresses and millions of 'ah, well' sighs in the mirror, my D cup breasts were over-nighted by the nice people at UPS. What can Brown do for me indeed! Those men in brown shorts are going to build my self-esteem, make me actually enjoy buying bathing suits, and give my husband the man's equivalent of Christmas, his birthday and Debby Does Dallas all in one little package.

Sure, the intellectual, athletic, Dirt Girl, daughter-of-hippies, tree-hugging Seattle-ite in me is somewhat appalled that I have succumbed to the shallow, beauty-based culture that dictates a woman's worth by her ability to fill out a sweater. However, after listening to that woman for a lifetime, today I told her to shut the hell up and enjoy all the new sportsbras she'll get to wear.

And yes, it's major surgery and requires a recovery period and what will I tell my daughters? And yes, some feel that Breast Augmentation is the E-ticket to Hell. Well, those some can kiss my well-toned ass. Because I have dieted, dripped in sweat, worked, primped, styled, frosted, tipped, massaged, creamed and sculpted my face, hair and body to be as good as it's going to get. I've shopped for every bust-enhancing, petite-friendly wardrobe item available. I've told myself repeatedly that I'm above it all, I should be happy with what I have, I'm married, I'm a mother, and so on and so forth. I've achieved all of the goals on my 'by the time I'm 30 list', including finding general contentment and frequent happiness. And I've done it on my own, in between building a wonderful marriage, raising two magical children, creating a gorgeous home and flourishing in my chosen career.

And that's all fabulous, but I still can't shop outside of the training bra section of Dillards.

Plus, ordering boobs is fun. My surgeon has a Pottery Barn red rattan basket with a lovely cream linen liner with "BOB" BeDazzled along it. BOB stands for 'Basket Of Boobs' and holds silicone implants of all shapes and sizes. My husband and I spent twenty giddy minutes stuffing implants into my bra, giggling and arguing the merits of 300 ccs versus 400. And then we spent ten more minutes admiring what will soon be my new figure. I haven't seen him smile so widely since I agreed, fourteen years ago, to walk back to his apartment with him to see the ‘view’ out his bedroom window.

And I gotta say to all of you Hot Minivan Moms out there who may be considering this: GO FOR IT!!!!