You hear the phrase “living in sin” and think of rebellion. Or maybe just romance. For me, it started meaning “living large.” Not the kind of large where your bank account explodes, but the kind where your waistband explodes.
I took the plunge. I moved in with my boyfriend. It seemed like the logical next step. We were dating, we were happy, we were essentially already living together minus the lease.
Then came the pinch. That familiar, cruel constriction around the midsection.
Here is the ugly truth about cohabitation and weight gain. My boyfriend didn’t gain a pound. He can eat pizza, pasta, and pie like it’s water. He is the kind of guy weight watchers hate. I am the weight watcher. I have worked for years to shed college pounds and maintain a stable weight.
My new living situation has destroyed that progress.
The Trap of Domestic Abundance
I have been watching what I eat for most of my 26 years. It wasn’t easy. My parents had a pantry that defied nutritional logic. Soda, chips, sugary cereals. Chocolate-covered donuts were a breakfast staple.
Lunches were worse. Salami and cheese on white bread with mayo. A bag of chips. A juice box. One piece of fruit. Sometimes a chocolate treat.
These habits are hard to break. Throughout college, I cycled through weight gain and loss like a yo-yo. When I graduated, I vowed to get my health under control. Then I met my boyfriend.
The first year of dating was dangerous. We ate at every nice restaurant in town. We made slow, lazy weekends. We cooked elaborate meals together. For him, it was fun. For me, it was doom.
I gained two dress sizes in year one. I was heading toward three.
In year three, I looked in the mirror. I stepped on the scale. I realized I was heading toward serious trouble. I got off the “eat everything in sight” wagon. I cut portions. I avoided the trigger foods. For nearly a year, I stayed at my goal weight.
I thought I was ready for the move. I was wrong.
How Living Together Triggers Weight Gain
The first month was smooth. I was optimistic. I didn’t notice my thighs turning into something else.
By month two, my summer clothes were tight.
I should have stopped. I should have recalibrated. Instead, I doubled down. Dinner became a production.
Rushing home from work. Grocery shopping together. Cooking side by side. The meals we made had more calories than my entire previous day’s ration.
Steak. Pork chops. Tacos. Pasta.
Each main dish came with potatoes. Or rice. Or both. A salad, sure, but then dessert. Always dessert. Gone were the days of light dinners. Gone was eating before 9 p.m. Gone was the gym.
“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.
Reclaiming Your Health After Moving In
Last week, I stepped on the scale. I nearly collapsed.
Eight pounds had crept back on.
Why does it take so much effort to lose weight and barely any effort to gain it?
It was a wake-up call. I went into response mode.
I didn’t quit cooking. I didn’t ban dinner. I halved my portions. I got my boyfriend on board. He helps me battle cravings now.
I returned to the gym. I eat low-fat snacks after dinner instead of an entire row of oatmeal cookies with orange sherbet.
I am not going back. I am stronger than my cravings. My thighs are done with jiggling.
My boyfriend watches me from the couch. He waves. He is still skinny. He still eats whatever he wants.
I head out the door. The gym awaits.
Living in sin doesn’t have to mean living large. But you have to be the one to draw the line. Otherwise, the waistband wins.
