Peter McKay

For the past 25 years or so, my waistline has been expanding, slowly but surely, at a steady but depressing rate. You'd never really notice from month to month, but the progress is there, never slowing down, never speeding up, inexorable. It's sort of like a glacier, except made out of fat.

I started out my adult life thin as a rail, so skinny that I had to use a hammer and nail to put extra holes in new belts just to keep from inadvertently mooning people. But each year since marriage, taking advantage of regular meals, I've added a fraction of an inch to my beltline, layer after layer, like a tree adding bark. Were you to cut me down with a chainsaw, you could tell how many years I've been married by counting the rings.

This is never really much of a problem unless I need to do something bizarre, like go to the pool or sit up. I long ago gave up cutting the grass without a shirt on, largely at my daughters', and my wife's, insistence.

But about a year ago, I started an on-again, off-again effort to slow down my spreading middle though running and doing sit-ups. I didn't ever expected a six pack on the outside given how many had gone inside, but every time my belly got big enough where my shirt began to hang down straight from my belly button, swinging in the breeze, I'd take notice. I'd start to watch what I ate, and I'd get up a little early and run three times a week. On days I didn't run, I'd hook my toes under the edge of my dresser and do sit-ups until I felt like I had a stomachache.

I'd keep up this rigorous routine until I got to where I felt in moderately better shape. At that point, I'd immediately give up.

For the past few months, though, I'd been keeping at the running and sit-ups to the point where I felt it was possible, if not probable, that I could roll back the years to my 2001 levels of fitness.

(Maybe only as far as 2002, but let's not split hairs.)

This past weekend, my wife took me out to buy new suits. It's something I avoid like the plague because I hate shopping so much. My general practice is to buy a pile of suits, ties and shirts and then wear them until they actually give out. I know when I put some change into my pants pocket, and it rolls down my leg and out my cuff onto the floor that it's time to go to the mall.

This year, as I tried on suits, my wife frowned when I told her to look for pants with a 36-inch waist. A man my age and height, she said, in the type of tone people who take care of themselves use with people who don't, should have no more than a 34-inch waist.

A little annoyed, I offered up that I had been doing my exercise routine for months now, and that I could probably fit into a pair of 34s again — if I wanted to. She picked out a couple pairs of dress slacks in 34. Noting that they had "comfort waist" stretchability — basically a hidden piece of elastic to make a 34 into a 36, I confidently agreed I could wear them.

As I came out of the dressing room, proudly showing off how well I fit into "34" pants, my wife handed me a suit she'd found on sale. I looked at the tag, noted the 34-inch waist, and then looked for the "comfort waist" label. No dice.

In the dressing room, the jacket fit perfectly. The pants? Not so much. I got them buttoned, but only by sucking in my gut until I was standing on tiptoe.

A mature man would have admitted he needed a slightly larger size. Or he would have asked the salesman to let out the pants, maybe just a little. But when I came out of the dressing room, my wife gave me the kind of look that people who exercise do when they're about to congratulate themselves because someone's about to give up. I bought the suit.

If you see me walking around town any time soon in a new suit, I might wave. I might smile. But I'm not going to stop and chat, because I've found it's really, really hard to talk when you can't breathe.

To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2009 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.