My boyfriend and I spent New Year’s Eve holed up at a bar drinking wine and dancing. Publicly, we had easy resolutions. We decided to try to save more money and find some fun activities to keep us active after work.
“We might sign up for a sushi-making class!” my boyfriend told friends.
“Or take tango lessons!” I said, elbowing him in the side.
“Yes, or tango lessons!” he chimed in.
“Oh, that sounds like so much fun,” said our friends. Then they moaned about their resolutions: saving money, losing weight, hitting the gym…
My boyfriend and I exchanged uneasy looks. “We might try swing dance instead.”
It’s not that we were lying. We really, really want to try a sushi-rolling class. We’re really, really looking into dance classes.
But what we really need is jazzercise.
When we met last November, when I was a trim 118 and he was a rail-thin 175. We were incredibly attracted to each other, as evidenced by our first date, which went from a first drink… to a first breakfast.
As our relationship bloomed, so did our waistlines.
I was always a short, curvy girl with a big chest and a flat stomach. When I tried, I was a size 4. When I splurged, I was—at most—a size 6. But after the first six months with my boyfriend, I could barely get into the baggy size 6 jeans I had reserved for occasional PMS bloating. My huge chest was too huge, and I had developed a tummy.
He was a former fat kid who had lost forty pounds over the course of a successful year. He had gone from chunky to thin, and his face thinned out to reveal svelte cheeks and a sexy jawline. When I met him, his skinny jeans were just that—skinny. And he looked great in them. Fast forward six months later, and he hasn’t gained back all the weight but he’d gained some of it. His face had filled out more and his stomach had, too. He no longer wore his skinny jeans.
We moved in together, and vowed to each other that we would eat out less.