There are several — at least two, anyway — good reasons why a woman might want a breast reduction, but there are traps waiting along the way to the operating room:
Without insurance approval, getting a reduction in New York City can cost you upwards of $10,000.
My J. Crew Factory Store lifestyle couldn’t accommodate such expenses. Even if I did have ten grand lying around, I’d rather spend it on something more exciting than boob deflation, like a very nice kayak or a few of those Volcano candles from Anthropologie.
Insurance approval was a must for me to move forward.
Easier said than done, though:
Even with all my medical documentation, the insurance company itself had to inspect my honkers. And so, I found myself standing topless in an exam room while a surgeon I’d just met snapped pictures of my chest.
He directed me in what was surely the world’s most awkward photo shoot: “Turn a little to the left … Pull your shoulders back … Move your hair out of the way.” It. was. not. cool.
And even then:
After flinging myself back into the hospital gown with all the poise of an ostrich on fire, I asked the surgeon what he thought my chances were for getting insurance approval. Turns out, after all that, he thought my chances weren’t great. When I pressed, he admitted the approval process was extremely opaque, so he was hesitant to give me any sort of assurance.
Of course it’s opaque. They resist the very idea of patients knowing what they’re doing.