I Had A Breast Reduction – And Fell Out Of Love With My Body

I loved my boobs when I was a teenager. In fact, I loved my body. I flaunted it in itsy-bitsy bikinis on Clifton Beach and at Sea Point Pavilion. And then I really flaunted it all on Sandy Bay, lying in the sun from nine to five with just baby oil as my ‘sunscreen’.

- Linda Pietersen

I remember my older brother remarking how he would hate to be the buttons closing the blouse over my chest, that they spent the whole day gripping onto the buttonholes, surely exhausted after a few hours. Oh, how I laughed. My boobs were me! I loved them and, in turn, I loved myself.

One day a pervy photographer asked me to appear in a topless calendar when he was ‘talent-spotting’ on Sandy Bay. My very droll mother said, ‘Well, you go ahead. But I don't think it’s a good idea, given how the aangetroude familie might react.’ Not forbidden, I let it go. Had she said absolutely no, I probably would have rebelled.

I used to joke with male colleagues as their eyes wandered south. ‘Look me in the eye,’ I would say, leaping up and down to get a reaction. I realise now that the fact that I had such a good body image put me in the minority –not only when I was young, but also later in life, when I somehow still managed to see Jessica Rabbit when I looked in the mirror. Self-delusion can be a wonderful thing.

Then it all slowly started going south, literally. I got older and my boobs headed towards my stomach. Still Isaw Jessica Rabbit –I just strapped them up with bigger and bolder bras. Trips to London always meant a stop at Marks &Spencer for minimiser bras, which slowly increased in size to 38DD.

I just kept buying them until I had a stash of about 40 bras, all supposedly to keep me in control. I shunned the idea of plastic surgery. Why spend so much money on something I could handle with the right bra? The cost is a fabulous overseas trip for me and my husband, I reasoned.