Chub

I've put on weight.

I'm not sure how much, because fortunately the scale here isn't working. It isn't all *that* bad, as all my clothes still fit, with the sole exception of this one sheath dress that was really, really tight to begin with, and which works better with foundation garments anyway, and the last time I tried I could still get the zipper up, I just couldn't sit down, and it was kind of riding up on my hips in a not so flattering way, which suggests that there is some extra weight in my ass region.

Where I've really noticed, however, is in the boobs. I was never a chesty person, to put it lightly. In fact, I did one of those DNA tests a few years ago, the most hilarious part of which was that the test would tell you what color eyes and hair you had (because, why not?). Among those salient and easily confirmed details I was also informed I had smaller than average breasts. Thanks for the tip, I thought.

But in the last year or so, that hasn't been as much the case. I cleave now. I've had to acquire new technologies, in sizes heretofore unimagined. At different moments, they ache.

They're aching right now.

I don't know if this is due to this brain tumor situation, which changes hormones in there, or what. That seems like a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps it's just the vagaries of age. Do other women wait until their late 30s to grow breasts? Maybe not. But here they are. I can move them around, fluff them up, make them pretty.

I'm due again on Sunday. Are my newly plush breasts a clue? Or a coincidence?

I guess we'll find out soon enough.