I’ve written in the past about my rack—or rather, my attempts to promote the appearance of a rack. This preoccupation is nothing new: I grew up diligently performing the bust-enhancing exercises detailed in Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. When those didn’t work, I resorted to some clandestine bra stuffing, with mixed (not to mention uneven) results.

There was a brief moment when I was pregnant that my buds became bazooms; however it coincided with the worst bout of morning sickness ever reported and only lasted about two weeks before my stomach overtook them. While I know that I possess many fine attributes, my chesticle region has been low on the list.

Until now.

Thanks to innovations in the undergarment industry my knockers are experiencing a renaissance of sorts. I don’t know the technical term, but when you put water and gel and padding together with some wire, the results are…impressive.

I have one bra that I refer to as my boob-job bra. It hoists everything into place and, if I deploy the extra clip located mid-strap in the back, there is jiggling and jostling when I walk, the likes of which has never been seen on my parts.

When I wear it, the Serb is speechless. And a bit handsy. I bought three more when they went on sale recently and chucked all of my underachieving brassieres in the trash. This means I’m packin’ heat on everything from school runs to emptying the dishwasher.

Crisp autumn weather has compelled me to keep the girls under wraps, but two weeks ago saw the return of summer temperatures and scoop-neck t-shirts, so I decided to flaunt my fun bags.

Throughout the day, my husband referred to me as “B.B” (as in “Big Boobs”) and spoke of my chest in the third person—i.e. when we went for a hike, he asked, “Are they coming with us?”

Driving to the hiking spot, we were stopped for speeding. Although I neither cried nor threw my panties at the cop, I’m confident that he reduced our ticket because of the eyeful I gave him as I leaned across the Serb to hand over our registration.

Serbs and cops weren’t the only ones giving me preferential treatment, but this elevated status of my mammaries was interesting for about five minutes. After that I became seriously self-conscious, not to mention creeped out, from the blatant leering.

I’m certainly not going to ditch my boob-job bras; however I will be more discerning when it comes to that mid-strap back clip—that thing is dangerous.

When I wear this...

The Serb gets like this: