I must, I must, I must increase my you-know-what...

There was once a time where I was built like a 2x4. Straight up and down with about as many curves as Hwy 5. I remember shopping with my mother, wanting to buy a pencil skirt and her saying "Well, love, you'd need hips for that to work." Hips. Things I did not have. Nor boobs. I went to college, still possessing a boyish, athletic shape and decided that I would just have to deal with my figure, envious of my girlfriends who filled out jeans and sweaters in ways that I never would. I was the tall, gangly one. My boyfriend called me Runt and I made people laugh - the funny girl with the blond hair. I accepted this about myself.

So it was with some surprise that I realized my body had caught up with my wishes a few years ago. Things Had Been Happening under my unsuspecting nose - one day I tried on a dress and realized that my outline was more hourglass and less column like. Why I was so grossly late to blossom, I do not know. Perhaps Jesus had been buried under a black-log of prayer requests and my hopes had been lost in the shuffle of more important things, say, like, starving children and the imminent threat of WMD's.

However, leave it to my mother to put a damper on celebrating my newly acquired cleavage. I was over for dinner the other day and while eating what she called "the lovely fish stew" (the details of which I will spare you) she said "You know, I've been meaning to tell you something," a phrase which, if you know her, will stop you cold. "You should really be putting your bosoms away" she said, picking a small bone out from between your teeth. "Excuse me?" I choked, trying to swallow down a particularly large piece of fish and potato all at once. "Well, I've noticed that you've grown in certain areas, and while you look lovely, you should probably think of wearing things that are more concealing. You know. For the men." I knew where she was going with this, but since pressing my mother is like a sport to me, I pressed. "How do you mean?" I asked, innocently. "Well, you know. They can't help but look THERE. And when you have BOSOMS then that is all that they will be looking at or thinking about."

To clarify, I am no Pamela Anderson. Her massive rack is like a round house kick and a jab to the baby hole compared to what I'm packing. However, according to my mom, anything that qualifies as a feminine lump ought to be concealed under copious amounts of fabric. I answered my her by saying "But just think, mom, of the power we would have if we could harness that sexual energy!" To which she raised her eyebrows and said "Psh!" a sound that meant, quit being impertinent...and put on a turtleneck.

I washed down the remaining soup with my wine and spent the rest of the evening pulling at the neck line of my sweater in an effort not to offend my mother with my obscene decolletage. I kissed her goodnight and left, thinking on my way home about how funny it is that at nearly 33, my mother still thinks it's her duty to remind me to be Proper and live with Decorum and to not Lead Others Astray. She, it would seem, has more faith in the powers of my rack than I do. And here I am, just thrilled to finally be able to fill out a shirt without the assistance of a padded bra.