Green with Envy? (I don't think so)

I don’t think I was ready for the reactions.

I mean, I should have been. It’s not like I don’t see myself in the mirror every day. It’s not like I don’t feel their weight constantly pulling me forward or catch myself shifting my arms in ways that make space for the absurd amount of boob that’s now just there at all times.

But apparently, there’s nothing like a three-month gap to really drive home the point for other people.

Saint Patrick’s Day. Drinks flowing (for them, not me), friends gathered, festive green attire on full display. I had thrown on an oversized green sweatshirt, hoping to keep the comments to a minimum, but let’s be honest—that plan was doomed from the start.

It started with the selfie.

We squeezed in, arms around each other, someone held up a phone, and click. Immediately, the screen was flipped to check how we looked, and right on cue—

"OH MY GOD. They’re actually even bigger than last time."

Cue the laughter. Cue the genuine disbelief.

"You’re kidding. There’s no way. You have more since Christmas??"

"Wait, wait—take off the sweatshirt. I need to see this."

I hesitated for a second. Not because I was embarrassed, but because I already knew what was going to happen. The green sweatshirt was at least pretending to give them some kind of illusion of normalcy. But the second I peeled it off—

Jaws. Dropped.

My tight green tank top—one that had already been struggling to contain things in December—was now practically vacuum-sealed to my chest. The fabric stretched to its absolute limits, the straps doing their best but visibly fighting for their lives.

"THAT IS NOT A REAL SHIRT."

"What do you mean, this is the same one you wore in December?!?"

I looked down. They had a point.

The fabric didn’t just "fit" differently now—it was actively losing the battle. Quad boob? No. This was like, sextuple boob. The space between my bust and waist had disappeared, the tank rolling up a bit where my chest pushed it outward. I tugged it down, only for it to immediately inch back up.

Someone poked the side, right where the spillover was the most obvious.

"Bro, this is an illegal amount of boob. You can’t keep getting away with this."

I laughed. What else was I supposed to do? They weren’t wrong.

We spent the next half hour just going through old pictures, comparing my size at different events like I was some kind of living expansion time-lapse. December. October. July. Every time, bigger. Every time, more jokes.

"Okay but for real, how much do they weigh now?"

Good question. And one I’d been avoiding checking for a few weeks.

So, after the night wound down and we were back at my friend’s place, I decided it was time. Out came the bucket. The water. The science.

And, well.

They’re heavier. Again.

They’re 12 pounds each now. Twenty-four pounds total. More details and graphs to come. Full boob science post this week.

But it's a literal case of "I put on weight but only in one specific, unfairly jiggly location."

And you know what? As much as I keep trying to tell myself this will slow down eventually… I don’t think I believe it anymore.

Also. Side note. Y'all know I’ve been tired lately, constantly feeling drained, and I’m starting to think it’s not just general life stress. The weight gain, the hormonal fluctuations, the absurd rate of growth—I think it’s all connected. I might actually be dealing with growth fatigue. Which, of course, is a very normal, totally casual, not-at-all-concerning thing to have.

Might be PCOS in conjunction with my glands being extra sensitive to fluctuating...

So yeah. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. My boobs are bigger. My friends are in shock. My clothes are fighting for their lives. And I, once again, have to wonder where this actually ends.

Maybe I should start taking bets.

Also curious if y'all wanna see me in cow print more or cheetah print,for more real clothes I go out in?