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Every time I go to the store, I grab pants with a 31" waist in the hopes that I've lost that inch of flab around my waist. Every time I try them on, my hopes are dashed--they're still an inch too tight. Those love handles of mine are still there. I'll suck in my stomach, but that extra inch is still there. I don't even have anything close to the washboard abs girls are digging these days. Nope, it's all just fat. I'll go back out and get myself a pair of 32" waist pants, and they'll fit fine, but every tiem I look in the mirror, I see that extra inch.
When I go home, I'll rip off the little sticker on the pants leg that says 32 over and over again and cut it to shreds. Then I take a Sharpie and turn the 32 on the tag at the waist into a 31 to give myself the illusion that I have lost weight. I know once I lose that inch for good, girls will be falling at my feet. I'm sure of it. If only that inch weren't so stubborn.
My mohter sees the changed numbers when she does the laundry, but she doesn't say anything about it. I can tell she worries, though, because after laundry day, she'll watch me eat like a hawk and sometimes she stands outside the bathroom, waiting for me but pretending to do something else. I don't see what she's so worried about. It's not like I'm anorexic or bulimic or anything. Besides, isn't that something only girls do? Anyway, a little tag-editing never hurt anyone.
My father doesn't know. If he did, he'd probably say something like, "Don't be a wuss, son. Men are best with lots of meat on their bones," and pat his potbelly. Yeah, if that were true, I'd have a girl wouldn't I?