THE KHAKI PANTS at Harold’s clothiers were a steal at $20. That they had been marked down from $100 made them irresistible, even though the 38-inch waist was two inches bigger than I was wearing at the time.
“My Fat Pants,” I explained to my wife, who knows well my Oprah-like fluctuations.
This purchase was a very bad idea. I had never needed pants any bigger than 36–the upper reaches of acceptable post-collegiate girth for a formerly athletic guy. But once you buy the bigger size, you’ve already conceded you will need them. I fought the change with everything I had. Not by dieting or exercising, but by continuing to wear my increasingly uncomfortable 36s.
As long as you wear pants that say “36” on the inside tag, you technically have a 36-inch waist.
This, at least, according to an exchange I had with a friend not long ago.
Friend: “I’m depressed. My tailor just told me my waist is 37 inches.”
Me: “What was it before?”
Friend: “What do you mean, what was it? It’s a 36. That’s what all of my pants are.”
Me: “But your tailor just measured you at 37.”
Friend: “He’s wrong.”
(This same friend, when I called to ask permission to use his name, first tried to convince me that the numbers were 35 and 36. I wouldn’t budge. He remains anonymous.)
Coming off of my sixth knee surgery, it took me just three months until my Fat Pants fit and another three months before they were too tight. There were real-world consequences. My wife is always in good shape, and soon we were getting quizzical stares in public places. We had become what I’d always mocked: the mismatched couple. What is she doing with him?
This bothered me. Not enough to diet or exercise, but it bothered me. So I came up with a brilliant plan. I started buying new 36s. The reasoning was simple. I bought the bigger size and gained weight until it fit, so I’d buy the smaller size and lose weight until it fit.
This doesn’t work. After two years, I’ve collected nine pairs of unworn size 36s.
Eventually I was desperate enough to go on a diet. I tried Atkins, the Zone, the government-approved high-carb, low-fat plan. But I have trouble staying on any diet. Lately, I’ve taken to switching with each meal–bacon, sausage, eggs, and cheese for breakfast. Then, pasta and garlic bread for lunch. For dinner, a big steak–no potatoes–and a Michelob Ultra.
I don’t recommend this.
So now I’m considering exercise. But there is the problem of my knees. My doctors tell me not to subject my knees to pounding or twisting of any kind–no more beach volleyball, no more soccer, no more hockey. In short, nothing manly.
Some of my friends have already accepted this. My anonymous friend has taken to wearing a pedometer. A year ago, he talked about his boxing workouts. “I spent an hour on the heavy bag,” he would say, “and then jumped rope for 20 minutes.”
Things are different now. “It’s not even lunch and I’ve already taken 8,500 steps!” he informed me last week with evident pride.
Silly as he sounds, talking openly about your girly exercise regime is probably wiser than keeping it a secret. I was at dinner recently with my college roommate–we’ll call him “Dave”–and our wives. At 6 ft. 2, Dave was a strapping young man; he played high school football and wrestled varsity for three years.
Our wives were complaining about men who work out in revealing short shorts. Dave’s wife told us how Dave had avoided that problem.
“David just bought a new pair of pilates pants,” she said, and continued talking. I looked at Dave just as he slumped in his chair, defeated. His secret was out.
“Pilates pants? What are pilates pants? What is pilates?”
Dave explained that pilates is a new, hip fitness regimen that “involves stretching and breathing” exercises. “It’s a lot more masculine than yoga,” was his flaccid attempt at a defense.
I never want to get to the point where my best defense is: It’s a lot more masculine than yoga. But I must admit their new “lifestyles” seem to be working. Anonymous has walked off 15 lbs., and Dave is slowly getting himself back to wrasslin’ form.
I still can’t imagine participating in such activities. But I suppose now that I’ve written a full-page magazine piece about pedometers, pilates, and pants sizes, I can’t have too much pride about anything.
And it would be nice to retire my Fat Pants.
–Stephen F. Hayes
