Jelly

It can't be. It absolutely can't be, I thought, standing stock still in the middle of the dressing room. Okay, don't panic. Take a breath.

Well, maybe not too big a breath.

There I was, in the middle of John Little's in my underwear, and the evidence was staring me straight in the mirror. I was like a deer caught in headlight. My headlights.

Trying on a black brassiere would have fit me a year ago, I could now see that... well, my cup runneth over.

I always used to be petite. When I was younger, as Phizz and Bex can testify, I was one of those girls that remained flat-ish right up to the last year of school when the tiniest of speed bumps appeared. Slowly, throughout Junior College I put on plenty more weight and started filling out in places where the sun don't shine. And by the end of JC, boobs became the commonest of talking points, less mundane only than the weather.

Jun would threaten to poke my chest as we were walking down the street together and in University, Fongster and I would unabashedly compare chest sizes. By then, I was no longer insecure about what was no longer insignificant, and while I didn't exactly warrant Pamela Anderson-eqsue attention, I thought I was probably doing all right in that department.

However, recently at work, Betty and Patty, as they are otherwise known, have become a conversation piece - well, conversation pieces - once more. Dawn commented the other day that I was looking "boobsier" than ever and Di kept asking me to unbutton my collar. All this came to a head last weekend on a shopping trip with my mother when I found that on top of looking lumpier in the hips and thighs than ever, the cleavage had just become a whole lot more ample.

Holy, smokin' shit.

Look, God, Xenu, Allah, whoever. It's about time we had a little chat.

I know I used to wish that I would one day boast a va-voom set of curves comparable to Jessica Rabbit and I cringed whenever my friends teased me about being diminuitive. I'm sure you remember how I used to parade around in front of the mirror, fervently wishing my chest was bigger and imagining just how much better I would look with perky puppies.

I know I used to pray that I would achieve a letter far away from the top grade given out in class and I used to study my mother's bras, wondering if I would ever fit into them.

That I'm now two sizes bigger than her is a study in irony, and something I'm more than a little glad about. So thanks God, for listening and heeding my prayers and helping me fulFILL my true potential, I'm grateful for that. Also, I might consider taking it as proof that you do exist somewhere up there.

However, the continually expanding size of my bust, right up till today is no laughing matter. See, I'm not exactly tipping the scales here, but to inflate by even a little bit more would be bordering on disproportion. For someone who used to be runway flat to have to sneak the bras out from the back of the shopping rack is getting to be a bit much. So I'd really appreciate it if you'd leave the bazoombas alone for now, they're really, honestly, truly just about right.

I understand that you're trying to make a point... or two.

But enough already, I get it.