One less Foob, 100x more confidence
It was always there. Every day. Whispering to me. What, you may well ask? My Foob. Fake boob. The softie prosthetic I got on my first hospital visit after the mastectomy. Insert obligatory disclaimer that every one-or-no breasted wonder should do what's right for them. Whatever makes you feel at home in your own skin, is right. But for me? Wearing the foob was not it. I thought I might want to wear one sometimes. Turns out, wearing it felt about as good as draping cold wet spaghetti on my head (or at least, how I imagine that might feel.) It didn't make me feel less self conscious, or like I could slip out into the world unnoticed. Not that I've ever been one for going unnoticed. Instead, it felt worse. Like instead of accepting my body as it is, I was trying to make it look more "acceptable." I never quite found a home for it (and certainly not in my bra!) It became a drifter, finding its way from chair to sofa to pile of things on the