Last year, my husband used to boast that he could fit into a pair of jeans he bought when he was 17.
As he watched my weight fluctuate - from a toned 20-something to a mother of one, two and then three, he used to brag about the way the numbers on the scales never seemed to move for him.
"Your bum's not getting bigger," he would tell me. "My hands have just got smaller."
He would watch with pity as I ran, sweated and swam to shift the pounds and smile sweetly when I returned, trying not to gloat as he dug out another handful of corn chips and sat comfortably in front of his favourite fishing show while I tried to satisfy my hunger with a handful of dried apricots and three cashews.
When I convinced him to join me on the liver-cleansing diet one year, to which I stuck religiously, denying myself anything with flavour or colour, he was the one that lost the weight despite nicking out at lunch-time for a pie and chips and finishing with a block of chocolate.
"It's just genetics," he would say. "You can't help it that your genes gave you peasant legs rather than a fast metabolism."
But a funny thing happened on his way to 44.
He first noticed something was wrong a few weeks ago when we were on our way out to celebrate a friend's birthday.
"Did you dry these jeans in the drier?" he asked, sucking in a little harder than usual to get the zipper all the way up.
Despite my assurances that I didn't, he was convinced I must be mistaken.
After all, they couldn't have just shrunk by themselves.
Days later, after complimenting me on my achievements in getting back to a semblance of my pre-mummy shape, and polishing off the last of the brownies I'd made for the kids, he confided in me that he thought he might be sick.
"My stomach seems to be bloated. I think I may have something growing in there," he said quite seriously while searching in the pantry for something else to nibble on.
I suggested if he was worried he should go and see a professional, and hinted that perhaps if he cut down on the snacks he may find the "bloating" would improve.
"No dessert for me tonight," he announced.
But the sight of cookies and ice cream proved too much.
When he had to drive home from Wagga this week with the top button of his jeans undone, he finally realised that perhaps his growing girth was not the result of some insidious illness.
After jumping on the scales he had to sit down with his head between his knees and take deep breaths because the needle didn't point to the same number.
It hadn't gone off the scales - it hadn't really moved that much in 25 years.
But the 5kg he'd gained in all that time pushed him over the edge.
"Does my tum look big in this shirt. Do the vertical lines stay straight, or are they bending? How can you love me when I'm this fat?"
The next morning he was up and out the door, dog on the lead and walking briskly down the road.
And when the kids tried to catch up with him, he actually broke into a trot, which stopped them in their tracks, having never actually seen their father do more than a quick shuffle to the fridge.
And when he got back I had some reassuring words of my own for him.
"Don't worry," I said. "You haven't put on weight - my eyes have just got smaller."