34 – And Hating Every Minute of It

A couple of weeks ago, my wife purchased for me a new shirt and some shorts for my birthday. When I opened the box containing the shorts, she said, “I think they’re your size (34), but they look big.”


Now, I have no illusions that I’ve maintained my pre-marriage weight. I mean, who can with all the dining out that today’s lifestyle almost requires; not to mention all the junk we have lying around the house for the kids. And oh Lord, but I love cheese!

In an attempt at balancing out my slovenly lifestyle, I also work out approximately 4-5 times per week in addition to any yardwork I do in the interim, so ultimately, I blame my mom’s genes for my sluggish metabolism. And I can’t expect umpteen cups of coffee to keep me ramped up when faced with 8 hours of office-cubicle chair sitting.

But it’s a wake-up call when your wife, very innocently, says you look fat. So here I am today eating protein shakes and fruit, while just trying to make it through the day without gassing the place out. (did I say that out loud?)

Coincidentally, or not, I also turned 34 this year and I sincerely hope this doesn’t become a new trend. When I’m sixty, I’d rather not have a similarly numbered waist size.

Kids: 40 years from now when you find this blog somewhere and you read it, don’t think of your old dad as a narcissistic schmutz. Just remember that once, I too aspired for underwear model greatness.

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