Kapilani: The oranges are on their way out!

It's been 10 months since the TT and breast reduction. I still have the oranges I had back in June of 2012. And as you know, I was growing increasingly concerned about the idea that they do not look athletic and petite; they still look like they could one day soon reclaim their former identity as grapefruits.

I waited until I hit the 6-month mark to mention it again to my doctor. He didn’t seem all that surprised that I brought it up, almost like he expected it. So I expanded once again on my non-streamlined body and lamented on how it’s difficult to become the athlete I never was in swimming and running if I’ve got these two baseballs in a sock hanging from each side of my chest.

What I never understood was this doctor of mine comes from a culture of beautiful people, without exception. They have better-than-perfect B.M.I.s and the ones who live in Hawai'i outlive the rest of us by a good 20 years or more. The women are slim and lithe--like dancers. They have perfect, pert breasts that don’t take up more than their share of room on the planet. I don't think they ever visit plastic surgeons. Why he didn’t turn me in to one of them I don’t know; part of me thought that would be his go-to point of reference, and I liked it that way.

Anyway, not only did he not seem surprised by my concern that I’m still a 34 D, he didn’t seem disappointed, either. He told me he’d redo them. It was like he was happy to offer. Simple as that. All this anxiety I've been dealing with was all for naught! And here I wrote that guilt-inducing, dark update back in October where the actions I was contemplating would get me committed and probably invited never to shop at Nordstrom's or visit their dressing rooms again.

I was so relieved by his generosity I forgot to thank him for the thank you note he sent me for the cereal bowl I gave him at Christmas. He did not understand how to use the bowl, but that’s beside the point. Knowledge of cereal bowl usage is not vital in life. The man has skills that are more than redeeming, and he's magnanimous, too, thus rendering misuse of a cereal bowl easily forgivable. Especially if one is lactose-intolerant, which is something I wish I’d considered before I gave him the bowl. But I’m still going to have him cut me open and then put me back together again. I think everything should be okay.

Let me reiterate. My doctor did a great job on my tummy tuck. I still have lumps and bumps, aliens and a camel hump, (no Seussisms implied or intended) but I think in time these will go away. I believe this. I hope for this.

I went to Victoria’s Secret and got sized. I am a 34 C. Someone pointed out to me not to get depressed, that V.S. tries to “flatter” women who want to be voluptuous, not athletic. Kind of the opposite of vanity sizing. Not quite the same as reverse psychology, but I’d guess it works for some.

I thought maybe I’d get a more accurate sizing from the Hanes/Bali store at the Folsom Outlets. Less “hoity-toity” factor. More honesty. Less indulgence on the part of the staff in self-deception on the part of the customer. That’s what would work for me. MY head’s not up in the clouds.

I got burned. The woman who measured me proudly informed me that I’m a ... “34 C.”

Still? What the hell? I came to him between a C and a D. Could it be true I’m not even one cup size smaller? Holy Mother of God! How am I to accomplish becoming an athletic person for the rest of my life with these two pomegranates on my chest? And the money I spent…this transformation is not cheap.

The woman interrupted my troubled mind. “What bra size are you wearing?” I skirted the question. “I was hoping you’d say I was a B. I just had a breast reduction…maybe I just got a lift…he really didn’t take out very much…” She told me that if my bras aren’t fitting “just right,” I might be wearing the wrong size. She then pointed out that I’m actually bordering on a D. That cruel joke of nature had me running from of the store, covering my ears, and I think spouting expletives (I couldn’t really hear) that I usually try to refrain from. I didn’t buy anything.

Don’t get me wrong. He left them pretty. But also pretty big.

At my last appointment, I shared with him the tales of my ventures to the bra stores of the greater Sacramento area, my hopes of having cute, athletic cones dashed. He agreed with the idea that Victoria’s Secret caters to those who want to think they have a larger breast size than they possibly do. This doesn’t really address the whole “…you might even be a D …” part of the equation at the lower-end store, but I was grasping at straws. I wanted to hear what his ideas at this point might be. He suggested that I try Nordstrom to get a more accurate sizing.

Okay. Maybe this would be my welcome dose of reality. I could go on becoming the angular-shaped, fit person I am endeavoring to become. I’ve been looking forward to feeling better about this situation for a long time now.

So I find myself in Nordstrom today: me and my melons. I got sized. And burned. Again. Worse than before. If once bitten is twice shy, then I’m catatonic. When the bra fitter left the dressing room, I lost no time in scanning the floor for anything at all that can be used to slit one’s wrists. Or hack down the chest by a couple of letters. I’m a 34 D. No question about it. The topic of a C cup never even came up. Not that I want to be a C. And I sure as hell don’t want to be a D. I’ve never been anything larger than a D, so I have no idea what the hell is happening. What I do know is that now I’m on his terms. At Nordstrom, I’m a D.

It feels about as good as getting that grade on an English paper. I’m having to imagine here….

Once again, my unquiet mind was interrupted by the bra lady. “I’ll be right back. I have a whole bunch of high-support bras in a 34 D, you’ll just love them! Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long!”

So that decides it. I’m going through this again. He may not want to take me on, although he already said he would. He may think I’m too high-maintenance, too unbalanced. But I have a degree in psychology too, so if anyone’s going to diagnose me, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much, and leave the plastic surgery to the expert, who took 96 grams out of one, and an even less 73 out of the other. And according to RealSelf, I paid more for this chick-flip than anyone else in Sacramento county. No insurance coverage. Maybe if insurance covered it, or part of it, I’d have a different outlook; if you get it for free, you really can’t complain….

The only way insurance will cover any of this for me is if I take this surgery into my own hands. Hack away at one with 73 paperclips; do the same to the other with 96 paperclips (the one-inch size weigh a gram each). That would mess them up. I think corrective surgery would be covered, but I’m not sure of the expertise of the plastic surgeons who come to the California state hospitals. I left all the metal pins, clasps, and clips on the floor of the dressing room, my wrists and other members of my anatomy unscathed.

I’ve still been thinking a lot about the term “Mommy Makeover” and its shortcomings. And now I don’t like “Body Transformation” either. It sounds like just anyone can get this done, and they can’t. You have to be a woman.

A “Chick Flip…” That’s a better name. You don’t have to be a mom, and you don’t even have to be of child-bearing age. You just have to be a chick. Then the T.V. execs could come up with a new reality series similar to “Nip and Tuck” and call it “Flip this Chick.”

I ran a 5K for the first time since before surgery. I donned underwear, the death suit, belly button earplugs, three bras, a shirt, shorts, socks, and running shoes. I put on my binder, too, to make my body like a bar of steel. I’m not quite sure I was ready for this…

I brought my awesome Italian last name out of retirement, and kept my Kapilani moniker, too. Life’s too short not to add a little mystery here and there while you can. I ran like the wind (as best as I could) with my lipo areas protesting at each footfall. I crossed the finish line in 26:50. That’s my fastest time in nine years.

My son, who is 1/4th Japanese, ran up to me and said, “You’ve reached Ninja status, Mom!” I figure he’s got the birthright to decree such an honor upon his mom. I accepted the new title.

During awards, I won a raffle. The announcer unfolded the entry ticket, sucked in her breath and called out, “Oh my God! What a cool name!” and I knew it was me. “KAPILANI S!” I paused a moment, just testing to see if there were any other Kapilani S's around. Apparently not. I went up and claimed my prize which just happens to be the coolest water bottle ever. It’s “BPA Free,” and it comes in a little jacket with a zipper pouch for your ipod. And the bottom unscrews so you can turn that bottle upside-down and shotgun that Gatorade into your mouth. Let it pour down your throat without so much as a swallow. I can’t really do this, but my son assures me it can be done. He offered to demonstrate. The boy clearly wanted the bottle, so I gave it up, as any good Ninja Mom would.