Who knew that perimenopause would give me the cleavage of Kim Kardashian, some days bordering on Heidi Montag?

Listen up here, hormones, I'd like a word with you...

Okay, now that I've got your attention, here's my question: What's the deal with the DD cup size all of a sudden? You've thrown me for a bit of a loop here. It's as though I'm meeting my breasts for the first time. Sure, the girls have had their share of personality shifts over the years (thanks to your powerful forces) -- from nonexistent to a perky B on up to C before settling into a lovely round D and then back to a B+ during fertility treatment (yeah, that was a cute trick--shrinking them on synthetic hormones) but I'm clean now. No more Lupron, Pergonal or the like -- so I'm a little surprised that you're reinventing them again ... when I'm 47. 

I know I should be doing cartwheels. Some women pay big bucks to get their rack in this state. Seems cleavage is everywhere these days -- especially among the 20-somethings. I can't help but blush on their behalf when I see how much some young women unself-consciously put on display. Me? I've always been a tad more modest. I'm okay showing my hood ornaments off in an evening gown, but the office? Not so much. 

My mammary glands apparently have a different idea. They clearly crave attention. It's all I can do to keep these overachievers under wraps. I'd look positively cougar-esque if I decided to unleash them in even a modestly low-cut top, but that's not me.

Now that's not to say I'm unhappy with having some shape to show off but it's not just the girls I'm interested in featuring. I'm all about the whole package in a nice balanced way. That's because I exercise and eat right and feel good about my bod overall. (Frankly, I also worry that if the girls become the main act I might create some whiplash issues for those of the opposite sex who can't help themselves when an impressive set is within their purview.)

Sigh. And then there are the shopping implications. My latest mall expedition presented a serious challenge. On my best days, I can fit in a size 6 skirt or  slacks depending on the generosity (or not) of the cut, but get a dress to fit right? Fuhgettaboutit. Nada, Zip.

During my annual physical I brought up the increasing state of my bust line to my doctor. She's a few years younger so we were able to get a good laugh about my predicament. After the guffaws, she switched to her professional voice and told me that women who've never been pregnant often end up with very dense breasts. (Have no fear, dear readers, they're screened every year, mostly recently two months ago, this time with an ultrasound to get around the density issue.)

More than anything I find the irony a little rich. Most women my age who succeeded in getting pregnant and/or breastfeeding are worried about their ta-tas reaching their knees. Who knew being infertile meant that I'd have, as a consolation prize: full, sensuous Playboy bunny-like breasts well into my 40s? I can't wait to see what they're like in my 50s.

Now, hormones, 'fess up. What do you have in store for your next act???

 * * *

Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos is the author of Silent Sorority: A (Barren) Woman Gets Busy, Angry, Lost and Found.