It’s a Tuesday night and I’m in a dimly lit dressing room at Carrefour facing the ugly truth: expat life has expanded more than my horizons—it’s also expanded my hips and thighs.

I would rather be at Galleria Inno confidently sliding myself into some sleek black designer fashion. Instead I’m combing discount racks under fluorescent lights looking for a cheap pair of jeans that won’t leave me looking like a denim sausage. My expat fat, in a bold move, has successfully evicted my ass from my U.S. pants. The shame of it!

Unsure of my European size (or my American size for that matter), I eyeball some pants and take an educated guess. I find all the pants in my size clustered over in one section. There’s a sign hanging over the racks. I wonder what it says? I have left my Mademoiselle sizes behind me and entered the sinister turf of Les Plus Grandes Madames. Give me grief about it and I’ll sit on you.

As I shimmy into pair after pair of pants, I wonder whether the lack of a full length mirror in my house has been a blessing or a curse. Maybe if I’d seen my figure taking on snowman proportions I wouldn’t have slid so far down the slippery slope of weight gain.

Always health conscious and interested in fitness, I watched my diet and exercised regularly in the U.S. I was always aware of balancing out my food choices over the course of a day. If I got mayo on my sandwich, I skipped the cheese. I never put butter on my potatoes, bread, or vegetables, was aware of portion sizes, and resisted desserts and sweets under most circumstances. I kept junk food out of the house, except for special occasions. I began every day with a morning weigh in and as soon as the numbers started to creep upwards, I adjusted my eating and exercise habits to bring them back down. It was all second nature to me, a way of life.

But in the months following my arrival in Belgium, my routine eroded and I lost my discipline. With so much of my life now unfamiliar and uncomfortable, it was easy to use food as a substitute for all I was missing. It became a reward for all we’d been through as well as a celebration of our new life. As I approached the one year anniversary of our arrival in Brussels, I resolved to mend my bad habits and re-establish discipline in my eating and exercise routines. And I failed. No excuses.

But as the clerk checks my purchases and I fold my new jeans into the bag, I renew my vow to send my expat fat packing and bring my skinny ass home where it belongs. It will be grand day when my fat pants land in the giveaway pile in our basement, ready to move on and move out.

October 17, 2006