Randi Kest, an editor with the Discovery Health Web site, shares her weight gain story related to moving in together with her boyfriend. Reading weight gain stories like Randi's will help you determine the relationship between weight gain stories and couples moving in together so you won't have to go through the same weight gain experiences. Randi writes an occasional series that explores the good, the bad and the ugly of cohabitating with her significant other.
"Living in sin" has come to mean "living large" in my book — and not in the I-have-a-lot-of-cash kind of way.
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After a short bout with some cold feet, I took the plunge and moved in with my boyfriend. All seemed to be going well until I felt the all-too-familiar pinch of the waistband.
Meanwhile, my boyfriend — my fabulously sweet, incredibly talented and amazingly smart boyfriend — hasn't gained a pound. He can eat anything he wants. He's one of those people we weight-watchers of the world love to hate.
And weight-watcher I am, indeed.
After a lot of hard work shedding pesky college pounds, I had been doing a great job of maintaining my weight leading up to the big move. But my new living situation, going on five months now, does not bode well for my new bod.
In the Beginning ...
Unfortunately, I've had to watch my diet for most of my 26 years. And growing up, this wasn't easy. My parents stock a mean pantry of soda, potato chips, sugary cereals, cookies and bag upon bag of candy. Try losing (or at least watching) your weight when chocolate-covered donuts are considered a balanced breakfast.
The lunches my mother packed were notorious — salami and cheese on white bread with mayo, a bag of chips, a chocolate treat, a juice box and one measly piece of fruit. After eating like this for most of my childhood, you can imagine that it was hard to break the habits once I was on my own.
Throughout college, I'd gain, lose and gain again. When college ended, I rejoiced and looked forward to getting a handle on my health once and for all. And then I met my boyfriend. As with many relationships, our first year together was spent sampling all the best restaurants in our area, making each other homestyle meals and laying around lazily on the weekends. For him, this was great. For me, this was doom.
During our first two years of dating, I grew two dress sizes and was on my way to three. It was during year No. 3 that I stepped on the scale and, as a result, stepped off the eat-everything-in-sight wagon. For nearly a year, I focused on getting my weight on track and ended up thinner than I had been since high school. I minimized my portions and swore off all those foods that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. And up until the move, I remained at my goal weight.
I mentally prepared for the possible change that faced me, but never did I think moving in with my boyfriend would have such a drastic result on my person.
Packing It On
During the first month everything seemed to be going fine, dare I even say smooth (save for my thighs, which were slowly turning into flabby, cellulite-ridden ham hocks unbeknownst to me). The weight gain wasn't apparent immediately. It wasn't until Month No. 2 that I noticed a difference, when my summer clothes resurfaced and were a tad bit tighter.
I should have taken this as a sign to slow down, regroup and get back on the weight-watching wagon. Instead I continued to explore new culinary terrain. Dinner had become an event. At first it was exciting — rushing home from work to go to the grocery store together, trying out new recipes and working side by side to assemble a plate of food that packed more of a caloric punch than my entire day's ration combined. Elaborately marinated slabs of beef larger than one of my puckered thighs took the place of the turkey sandwich I once considered supper. Steak became a once-a-week feature alongside pork chops, tacos and pasta. Each main dish was served up with potatoes or rice (or sometimes both), a salad and, of course, dessert. Gone were the days of light dinners, eating before 9 p.m. and considering sorbet dessert ... and let's not even talk about the gym.
Taking Control
So it's no big surprise that when I stepped on the scale not long ago I nearly collapsed. Eight pounds had crept back onto my frame. Why is it that it takes so much less time (and effort) to gain than to lose? Anyway, it was just the wake-up call I needed. I've since gone into full-blown response mode. I can't say I've done away with the elaborate dinners, but I've halved my portions and have gotten my boyfriend on board to help me battle my cravings. The gym has welcomed me back, and I've returned to eating low-fat snacks after dinner, in lieu of sucking down an entire row of oatmeal cookies washed down with a bowl full of orange sherbet.
I've vowed to myself that I will not falter. I will not fail. I will stand up to the tempting beast known as food and slay it with all my might. I am stronger than my cravings! My thighs have seen their official last day of jiggling.
"Keep your eyes on your goal," says my forever-skinny boyfriend who cheerfully waves to me from the couch as I head out the door to the gym.
Indeed, "living in sin" doesn't mean you have to live large.
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