Pants no longer work for me. They fall down my legs. Daily hip-opening exercises on a foam roller have gradually straightened my trunk, eroding my hip shelf for hooking on pants. Early January’s week of dysentery has emptied me skinny.
I’m punch new holes in belts. I search for size 28 and 29 pants, leaving aside the former size 30. I returning to my all-beer diet as it works wonders for my brother’s more stately figure.
Fear over skinny is quite a third-world problem and somewhat unknown in the United States. Nonetheless, as a perpetually skinny child, I always wanted to be bigger and now I worry that I’m wasting into a too-thin regime. Ruben’s bathroom scale reads me off at a scary 129.6 pounds, the lowest for me in at least two decades.