The day I turned forty-one I gained ten pounds. I suppose it’s possible that I’d gained it progressively since the last time I’d weighed myself, but I’d prefer to think I simply woke up 10 pounds heavier on that day. “Whoa? What the? I’ve not seen a number that big since I had a linebacker in utero! This scale is a piece of shit.”
I described this sudden and irreversible weight gain to my sister in law. She’s in pharmaceuticals, which means not only does she know a whole bunch about medicine and diseases and all kinds of creepy things that can kill you, she also gets a free minivan every couple of years. She suggested an immediate trip to the doctor to get bloodwork done. Then she said “and you better pray it’s diabetes or thyroid disease so you don’t have to start exercising.” Amen, sister, amen.
Rather than spending the $25 co-pay, though, I’m thinking I could find out what’s happening by getting a hold of someone from the GAP. The same strange expansion of body size has also occurred in their corporate offices, I think, because I still wear the same size jeans I’ve worn since my weight was correct on my driver’s license. Which would be about 15 pounds ago. I think it’s called “vanity sizing," when they make clothes bigger than they should be so that forty year olds can walk around thinking they've got a size four ass when it's so very clear to everyone that they've got a size eight ass... it's either that, or I am simply becoming more dense with age. Like a fruitcake.