My birth control is ruining my figure. It’s not so much the extra pounds the Pill has added to my frame—seven pounds, if we’re counting—it’s the extra cleavage that I can’t stand. I know most women would kill for overflowing bra cups. If you’d talked to me twenty years ago, when I was stuffing my bra with gym socks and then admiring my womanly profile in the mirror, I’d have balked at the idea big boobs would be anything other than a gift from God. But that was before my breasts inexplicably grew three cup sizes during my sophomore year of high school, and I became a school-wide, overnight sensation the day I demonstrated my jump-roping skills in gym class. Could there have been anyone more clueless and insensitive to the woes of teenage girlhood than a middle-aged, male gym teacher?