Nancy Herman, my new gym partner and locker neighbor, puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers, “Don’t worry April. I have foot fungus too.

I stamped, certified, and lipsticked my life in a package sent through Priority Mail directly to the devil herself…and there’s no turning back.

My secret world of bosom sculpting is crashing down around me. I’m destined for bra-stuffing rehab in a distant boobicus minimus land. I just know it.

In my opinion, the person who created the torture device called gym class should be clobbered with an enormous frozen cucumber. Not to mention, the person who decided it would be a great idea to...

Everyone knows he’s crazier than a shaved mule in a toboggan race.