"Look! It's my favorite ride! The Flying Boobs!"

Gales of laughter echoed across the crowds as I stared at my circle of friends trying to figure out what was so funny. Finally someone was able to catch enough breath to let me in on the joke.

"It's Flying Bobs, as in bobsleds."

When you hear a loud sucking noise, you think someone is in need of a toothpick or at least an ample supply of floss or there's no going back because the last of the bath water is going down the drain. But no one would ever equate -nor expect-that type of noise when pulling on a sports top, right? And yet that's exactly what I heard as my heaving breasts silently screamed out in shock and agony as I wrestled with the glue-like fabric.

What was I thinking? The damn thing touted a shelf which should have been my first clue there'd be trouble. After all, what normally sits on a shelf? Books, cookie jars, candles, anything with a flat bottom, right? So why on earth was I trying to rest my round, albeit saggy, breasts on top of a shelf?

Unfortunately the end result was egotistically awesome. My recently defined shoulders and collarbone were graciously accentuated in a pleasurable manner and my forty-one year old breasts had taken on the shape and pert appearance resembling that of twenty-year old breasts.

I rather enjoyed my morning as I set to the task of straightening and cleaning, constantly catching glimpses of my emerging slender figure as I moved about the house, causing the day to go by quickly.

Before I knew it, the boys and I decided to hop on our bikes for a tour of the neighborhood. And that's when it happened.

As I leaned over to strap on a band over my pant leg to keep it from catching in the sprockets, a sudden shift occurred, throwing me slightly off balance. It was as if some numbskull had slapped me a bit overzealously on my back. I glanced down and there, in all their glory, was one solitary boob. It protruded from the middle of my top like an enormous boil.

Back in the days of underwires (yesterday) I could adjust a misalignment quite inconspicuously. A mere tug of the shoulder strap combined with a slight twitch of my upper arm and boom! The stray breast was properly captured. To the typical passerby, the entire process was hardly noticeable and even then, the exact purpose of the maneuver was difficult to discern.

But now I was in a bit of a pickle. How would I be able to casually separate the twins without it being noticed? A feat I daresay anyone has yet to accomplish. After all, typical separations of conjoined twins call for extraordinary media coverage - that last on my list of desires at that moment.

I ducked into the garage and with one quick, deft motion, I shoved my hand down my top and sent Betty and Becky scurrying to their corners and was ready to ride.

Alas, the BB girls weren't very cooperative. No sooner did I climb aboard the seat of my bike and swung the kickstand back with my toe, they were rushing back to the very center of my top.

Screw it, I decided, and set off to lead the boys on our ride.

It wasn't long before the boys were complaining I was going to fast. I couldn't help it! My balance was off because Betty and Becky insisted on squeezing themselves together and thrusting their swollen, misshapen bodies up over my handlebars.

Now, you'd think that the moment we returned from our ride I would be off and running to separate the boobsy twins pronto. You would be wrong. There wasn't time in the day left to orchestrate a costume change. There was chicken to grill, a pool to clean, a mower to bring to life and homework to be supervised. I juggled the chores along with the twins, fighting off the urge to grab up a handsaw and finish it once and for all. I have dreamed of a breast reduction since my late teens and this was the moment that the urge was at its strongest. Damn good thing the husband had taken the saw to work with him and forgot to return it to the tool box.

In the final stretch of getting dinner on the table, the boys reminded me we still needed to go get the Sunday paper. We jumped into the car after I extracted my keys and wallet from my oversized purse and headed off into the sunset to grab the last paper. Let me offer you a warning, those of you with large breasts who are considering attempting thrusting them over a shelf, the manufacturers failed to list a safety warning. You should not, I repeat, not wear these contraptions while driving.

As I pulled the seatbelt over my waist, I found myself gagging. The shoulder belt had shoved up to cover my neck. The boys swore they hadn't been messing with my belt and when I was afforded the opportunity to check, I found they were telling the truth. What caused this sudden shift? The Uniboob. The pressure of the single boob against the belt shoved it up over my windpipe in the most uncomfortable position, causing me to gasp for air. But I am a fast thinker and quickly zapped the strap over my back and pressed on. We were on a mission and I wasn't about to let the BB twins' antics keep us from completing it.

Nine year old boys are a godsend. When we arrived at the mini-mart with a small newspaper stand outside, the boys rushed out of the car armed with quarters and worked their magic, proudly bringing back a paper stuffed with all of the ads as if they were pros. Moments later we pulled into the driveway and the kids hopped out of the car and dashed up to the front door where they waited for me. Forgetting that I had pushed the belt over my back, I opened the door as I unlatched the belt and went to step out only to be thrown back into the car at a speed that left me dizzy and nauseous. The boys giggled as they admired the crazy shades my face was taking on but quickly stopped when they saw the bright red shade emerge across my face, knowing that I no longer found my predicament funny. They learn much quicker than their father, thankfully.

Needless to say, the top was quickly thrown into the laundry basket and an oversized T-shirt that hid all of the nice curves I had been so proud to show off earlier in my day had replaced it … along with my heavy duty over the shoulder boulder holder firmly in place.

For sale: Only worn once, boob smasher. One of a kind worn by the infamous Uniboober. Bids start at $1,000.