I Suffered Ego Death In J-Crew’s Fitting Room

(Photo by Heritage Art/Heritage Images via Getty Images)

There was once a time in my early 20s when I could easily slip into a pair of slim 30-waisted pants. By my mid-20s, I had graduated to a 32 waist. Early last year, I began to expand a bit – not too much – and I was forced to ditch the 32 for a 33 – with a belt, however. All well and good, considering that for most of my adult life, I was actually too skinny. A little meat on the bone wasn’t going to hurt, and I didn’t want to spend the remainder of my 20s with the physique of a gangly high school student. I was fine with a 33. No, I welcomed it. 

Oh, but then I celebrated the biggest life milestone besides having children: Holy Matrimony. Slowly, surely, almost deceptively, after our honeymoon in Italy last May – during which many a pizza and plate of pasta were devoured – pouches of body fat began to form and hang on my body like soft lumps of Play-Doh. I say deceptively, because, just on a daily basis, I really couldn’t tell how much I was changing. It’s hard to gauge weight gain when it creeps up on you, when you’re not hopping on a scale every morning, when you’re not paying attention to how many cheeseburgers you’re eating every week. I was still running, still trying to go to the gym, still going to the beach, still swimming, playing golf,........

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