Several years ago, I worked with a very ... interesting, let's say, woman. She was in her early forties, and was naturally slender, although when I first started working with her she was a little heavier than she liked because she'd had a baby a couple of years before. One day, she up and decided to make herself stick-thin, and started running miles and miles and eating odd combinations of things. Then she started having an affair, left her husband, and convinced her new boyfriend to buy her some boobs.

She was already a D or DD, probably, and had the volume of a soda can added to each boob. The things were enormous. It was sort of scary-looking, especially on her teeny tiny frame. One day she bent over suddenly, and when I saw it out of the corner of my eye it really looked like her giant knockers had pulled her over! And it was around this time that she told me she wanted to lose another ten pounds. I didn't think she was serious, but she kept saying "yeah, I used to be 140, now I'm 150! I need to lose ten pounds!" And she kept insisting, and running further and futher, and eating less and less .... because the number on the scale changed.

I finally couldn't take it any more and pointed out she'd had those ten pounds surgically implanted onto her chest. She didn't like that much, but it just was so idiotic--you could already see her ribs, but because of a number, she felt the need to push it more.