"What. Is. This."
I stared pointedly at Mr T while I poked a new layer of tummy that had started travelling far beyond the top of my Levis to a place colloquially referred to as ‘muffin top’.
I hadn’t worn these pants for three months and my belly had gotten sassy, defying zips and crawling steadfastly towards my back. I tried to close the top button by sucking my intestines into my lungs.
It didn’t work.
This was definitely Mr T’s fault, I just wasn’t quite sure how yet.
"HOW. DID. THIS. HAPPEN." I demanded.
He wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear: "New Love Poofiness."
I’d been in denial, but he was right.
We’d come by New Love Poofiness along the three most popular routes: celebrating life’s gift of love with excessive amounts of wine, pudding and "hanging out" as opposed to hitting the gym.
Oh, who am I kidding? In Dotland "gym" is a guy who spells his name funny.
Nevertheless, we weren’t very active in any way that counts. There was no yoga, no walking, no swimming. All there was, was a lot of sex. And sex is not an activity that counts when it comes to counting calories.
Forget all those media soundbites you’ve heard about ‘sexercise’.
Unless you’re frantically banging away, non-stop, for 30–60 minutes, in some upside-down pose of the chaturanga dog the most you’re burning off is a cornflake or two.
Okay, to be fair, it’s more like ten chips or an apple. How do I know this? I introduce to you the sex calculator.
Mr T found it after we’d decided to do that dreaded thing couples do when they realise that the New Love Poofiness is upon them: Get back into whatever shape they were before those rose-tinted glasses made 24/7 celebratory pudding seem like a good life choice.
So we got to it (the exercise, not the sexercise).
You must have heard that phrase ‘couples who play together stay together’? Turns out, this isn’t just about feather boas and kink parties.
Apart from supporting each other to not inhale all known food stuffs, Mr T and I took up running and playing tennis together.
Now, working out together has always been something I’ve suggested to couples. Better health means better sex and orgasms, the shared endorphin high is great, and the adrenaline of healthy competition are all plus points.
But this is the first time I’ve followed my own advice about this and, although I haven’t turned into Gisele Bundchen, it’s clear that Mr T and I have just unlocked some next-level relationship status.
It’s a fun aspect of this relationship-building business I would never have considered had it not been for the New Love Poofiness. So I’m grateful for my love muffin top.
At least up to a point that no longer extends past my jeans.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I have some Mr T arse to kick on the court of love.