Battle of the Bulge

When I got married, I weighed 170 pounds, soaking wet. At 6' 4" tall, that's skinny by anyone's standards. Now, nearly 22 years and 70-odd pounds later, I've gotten big. Too big. The mirror knows it. The button on my pants knows it. My aching back and low energy level know it. And sadly, I know it, too. What once was a size 32 waist transformed into a size 34 ... then 36 ... and now 38. My daughter, the future doctor, tells me that tall people tend to accumulate their fat in one spot. Guess that explains the Buddha belly (no offense to Buddha). Forget beer gut (I hate beer), this baby's a junk food gut.

There's a chance we're going to Disneyland in late June, to celebrate Andy's 21st birthday and Kate's high school graduation. In the event we're able to pull it off (timing, finances, etc.), my goal is to fit comfortably back into my size 36 shorts. That means returning to the gym ... that place I used to go religiously, but over the past year have forgotten where it's at — as well as drinking more water and eating less pie/cookies/cupcakes/junk. You know the drill: Eat less, move more. Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But to win the Battle of the Bulge, I'm ready to fight. This week, I make friends with the water bottle and start eating better. Next week, after those damn Reese's Peanut Butter eggs are gone from the shelves, we find the gym. Wish me luck.