The first time I joined a gym, I was 24 and scrawny. The jacked guy at the front desk said all new members received a T-shirt and asked me for my size. Small, I said. He threw me a muumuu.
“This is a large,” he replied. “It’s all we have. Once you start lifting, you’ll fill it out.”
Hardly. I lasted 8 months.
But then I proposed to Jen, a onetime runner and yoga nut who had largely abandoned those pursuits to sit around with me. With our upcoming nuptials, the threat of shame finally loomed large: If we didn’t shape up and sharpen our softening bodies, we’d be gathering our loved ones together for a display of our shortcomings.