It had to happen at some point. I couldn’t go on forever. I always knew that someday I had to worry about my weight.
I know what you’re thinking. “Sterling Gray? He’s a man! A man’s man! He’s not some image-obsessed little girl!” First of all, thank you. I always appreciate my fans. But it’s true. I’m worried.

I became image conscious when I discovered the miracle that is a regular workout regimen. Muscles bulged in new places. Skin was tightening. So were my shirts.

One day I saw an ex-girlfriend and just happened to be wearing one of my more flattering shirts.

“Sterling, have you been working out a lot? Your arms are big!”

“Too bad you passed on this!” my inflated ego said.

All the work was immediately worth it.

However, the deflation of that ego was bound to happen. I soon fell victim to the oh-so-common roller coaster ride of modern physical exercise. My muscle mass went up and down, up and down, but one thing always stayed the same: my weight. It didn’t seem to matter what I was eating. I could have eaten raw bear meat and washed it down with a Rocky Balboa egg shake, but I wasn’t going to gain any weight. For three years, I strayed no more than five pounds from my average 165.

This summer, I’ve slowed down my pace a bit. Last semester’s blistering pace (yoga, weight training, and basketball class) couldn’t continue, so I naturally slumped back into no-workout mode. But something was different this time, something awful. I gained weight.

My chest is returning to its natural, concave form. Shirts are looser and pants tighter. If I stand up and poke one side of my belly, the other side jiggles noticeably.

I’m in trouble.

I’ve tried a few new things. I’ve given up raw bear meat, obviously. I also ride my bike to school during the hottest part of the day. I eat smaller dinners. In short, I’ve joined that self-loathing host of people who are forced to care about their weight.

It had to happen at some point. Sigh.