I HAVE been thinking about having a boob job. A little lift and pinch would make all the difference to my quality of life, or so I reckon. I always thought plastic surgery was for batty old dogs like Joan Rivers but I am wondering whether it could actually make me a genuinely happier person or not.

I have only noticed it in the past year but every time I loose a bit of weight, my chest shrivels up and begins to resemble the sad old contents of a dowager's brassiere. Just when the rest of me is at its trimmest, my tragically reduced decolletage keeps my body paranoia up to maximum dosage.

I have started dawdling in the changing rooms of my gym, taking a peak for a few comparisons while the women changing alongside me are struggling to get their tops over their shoulders.

And I am always troubled by what I see. Theirs are much firmer than mine. What man will want me this way? I would be deceiving any man that fell in love with me and my youngish body because at some haunting moment, I would have to reveal my prematurely aged bust and he would have to politely but suddenly pretend he belonged to the American church of Born Again Virgins and couldn't possibly go to third base. And indicated that I should put my top back on, fast.

I just don't know if women (and increasingly men) are conditioned never to rest in peace over the bodies the Lord God gave them. We are just too pear shaped, potato faced or too plain droopy, especially just after having seen the Nivea advert with that lady rubbing cream on her lithe limbs.

Maybe my boob paranoia is an expression of my existential angst in an image-obsessed era. I was worrying about my big bum last year but now that has been roundly thrashed into shape in the gym, I must prove my existence by transferring the insecurity to another aspect of my physique.

"I am neurotic, therefore I am", seems to be the mantra, striving for the kind of mythical physical perfection which J-Lo's glossy magazine adverts inspire. Maybe I should see my stretch-marked boobs as a reminder against the dangers of body fascism. Perhaps they are actually an antidote to the Barbie-society we live in where everyone strives to look the same.

I guess I could take a leaf out of my own book in thinking back proudly on how I finally came to terms with having a giant hooter after spending most of my teens saving up for a nose job.

It must have happened gradually but I remember waking up one day, catching a hooked shadow reflection of my nose and thinking, "some would call it big but I prefer the word regal".

I guess the only downside to embracing my imperfections and letting go of the shallow quest for eternal beauty and youth is that I would then be the girl with the big nose and saggy boobs.