Okay, I know I have your attention, what with the word “boobs” right there in the title. Now, don’t think I am one of those paranoid, psuedo-religious freaks who looked down and thought that there were imps in, on or around her boobs. Nope, these things really just know how to create havoc wherever they go. Some of the more poignant tales go this way:

When I was younger, my goal was to pitch for the Detroit Tigers. I had a wicked fast ball and a breaking curve/slider combo that was delicious to nibble on but impossible to hit. Ah, I tell you, I was out there in that backyard, lobbing that ball until the darkness settled in. And then, the unthinkable happened. Like two kamikaze jets trying to break free from the skin of my chest, the boobs showed up. I asked my dad if he thought I could still be a pitcher and he said “not with those knockers.”

As I got older, I stayed short but the boobs had a mind of their own. By the time I was in the seventh grade, they were spectacularly large and the subject of a number of debates, primarily, did I or did I not stuff and if so, what was I trying to prove by stuffing this much? One day, I had had enough. In front off the entire middle school band class, no less, I stood up and announced that the hateful things were mine, all mine and then proceeded to show everyone. This was followed by a very tense conversation with the principal and an even more tense with my mother.

Once I hit adulthood, you would think some of this nonsense would stop, but alas, that is not the case. It seems that not all of us ever really make it to that stage, and now this. I have finally found a work out program that I love and that I will stick with. It has been over sixty days; I have not missed a single workout. I dutifully measured myself at the beginning: arms, waist, hips, thigh and two measurements for the chest. Yep, you measure the rib cage, just below the breasts and then the fullest part of the girls themselves.

In my first four weeks, I had shaved off nearly seven inches from my body. I was thrilled. In my next four weeks, I added to that but not nearly as much as I would have liked to and would you like to know why? The demon boobs have fluffed themselves up! Two sports bras! Jumping, kicking and punching. I grit my teeth and go even when my heart threatens to stage a minor coup and take over once and for all. I shout that I feel fine which is a bald faced lie, dammit. My under bust measurement has gone done. My waist, my arms, even my thighs, those, mushy, gushy beasties of pale flesh have shrunk. But, the demon boobs have grown.

The theory of my support group and friends is that I have built up additional pectoral muscles which have pushed them forward. My own working theory is that the evil is building and about to do something dire. Don’t say you weren’t warned.