On Being Fat

For the first time in my life I don't worry about my weight.
At least not in the same way I used to.  I think I'm a damn cute pregnant lady.  I wear this baby, and the accompanying weight, well.
Even before the pregnancy, I have only ever been concerned with being a healthy weight.  I never aimed for a particular size, or "look." For me, it has always been about how I felt physically, how fast or far I could run, how high I could climb, not leading myself toward heart disease or cancer.

My husband, on the other hand, is another story.
Last night, as we lay in bed in the dark, side by side, talking as we usually do before falling asleep, I mention to him that my family has been asking about his shirt sizes, as they prepare for Christmas shopping.
"I told them you think you're a large, even though you and I both know you're a medium."
"You told people to buy me a size medium?!"  He replies, alarmed.  "I'm going to have to squeeze into clothes like sausage into a casing!"
He's slightly overdramatic.
"Baby, I used to be a medium, before we started dating and you stuffed me," he explains.
"Well, at least I cook good food!"  I laugh.
"Ugh, I just worry that I'm going to gain too much weight and end up fat," he sighs.
"Come on, baby, let's be real.  My brother just looked up all of our BMIs the other day and you're perfectly fine.  As long as you stay in the 160s you have nothing to worry about," I reassure him.

Silence.

Then he says, quietly, seriously, "I'm 177."

Oh.  Oops.