A journey to maximum density

When I first noticed my jeans getting snug last spring, I had two choices. I could have done the sensible thing—downloaded a fitness app, bought some quinoa, and started taking the stairs. But where’s the adventure in that? Where’s the narrative arc? Instead, I looked at my softening midsection and thought: “You know what this needs? Commitment.”

See, anyone can gain fifteen pounds by accident. That’s amateur hour. That’s what happens when you discover your grocery store delivers ice cream at 2 AM. But to truly embrace expansion? To really lean into the lean-out? That takes vision. That takes planning. That takes a loyalty card at every fast-food establishment within a five-mile radius.

I developed what I called the “Go Big Then Go Home” strategy. Step one: achieve maximum capacity. Step two: figure out step two later. It was foolproof, mainly because only a fool would proof it.

My first move was to retire all my “transitional” clothes—those forgiving garments with stretchy waistbands that enable denial. No more athletic leisure wear pretending to be real clothes. If I was going to expand, I wanted honest feedback from my wardrobe. I wanted buttons that screamed for mercy. I wanted zippers that filed formal complaints.

Next, I optimized my eating schedule. Breakfast at 7, second breakfast at 9, pre-lunch at 11, lunch at noon, post-lunch recovery meal at 2, pre-dinner snack at 4, dinner at 6, dessert at 7, and what I called “midnight regret” at 11:45. I was like a hobbit with a credit card and no impulse control.

The grocery store became my second home. I’d wheel my cart through the aisles like a Viking raiding a monastery, except the monks were bags of chips and the sacred texts were frozen pizzas. The checkout clerks knew me by name. One of them, Sandra, would shake her head and say, “Training for something?” And I’d reply, “Yes, Sandra. Hibernation.”

My friends tried to stage interventions, but I was too quick for them. “Want to go for a hike?” they’d ask. “Only if it ends at a buffet,” I’d counter. “How about joining our gym?” “Is it next to that new taco place?” They eventually gave up, which was fine. More room for me at restaurants.

The beautiful thing about purposeful weight gain is that you become an expert in your craft. I knew which pizza places had the greasiest pepperoni. I could tell you the exact oil content of every french fry within a ten-mile radius. I developed a rating system for donuts based on their glaze-to-cake ratio. I was basically a food critic, if food critics were scored on volume rather than nuance.

But the real mastery came in the justifications. “I’m bulking for winter.” “I’m supporting local restaurants during tough times.” “My body is just preparing for the inevitable apocalypse.” My personal favorite: “I’m conducting a long-term study on the elasticity of denim.”

There were milestones along the way. The day I had to buy new work shirts. The afternoon I got winded playing video games. The morning I realized I’d developed a relationship with my delivery driver that was deeper than most of my friendships. (“How’s your mom’s hip, Mary?” “Better, thanks for asking. Extra cheese as usual?”)

Of course, there were challenges. Airplane seats became my nemesis. Booths at restaurants turned into logic puzzles. Tying my shoes became a yoga routine that would challenge a Cirque du Soleil performer. But I persevered, because I’d made a commitment to achieving peak mass before considering any course correction.

Looking back, I realize my “get fat first, ask questions later” approach might have been flawed. It’s possible—just possible—that the traditional method of addressing weight gain when you first notice it has some merit. But where’s the story in that? Where’s the dramatic arc? Where’s the excuse to eat an entire cheesecake at 3 PM on a Tuesday?

Now, as I sit here, having achieved what my doctor calls “genuinely concerning” status, I’m finally ready for phase two: the comeback. The redemption arc. The training montage. Of course, first I need to finish this sandwich. And maybe just one more slice of pie. You know, for closure.

After all, you can’t have a dramatic weight loss journey without first creating something to lose. I’m not procrastinating—I’m building narrative tension. And if that narrative tension happens to be held together by straining buttons and optimistic elastic, well, that’s just good storytelling.

Tomorrow, I start my fitness journey. Or maybe next Monday. Mondays are better for new beginnings. Plus, I heard there’s a new burger place opening this weekend, and it would be rude not to support local business.

The horses will be reined in eventually. But first, let them run free through the all-you-can-eat pasture of life. Because if you’re going to do something wrong, you might as well do it so spectacularly that it becomes its own kind of right.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a family-size lasagna that’s really more of a suggestion than a serving size.