If You Want To Destroy My Sweater

The Sweater

We all have our vices. For some, it’s smoking or gambling. Even children may have a special blankie or stuffed animal that they can’t live without. Maybe your thing is a nightly glass of scotch. Not to worry, there’s no judgement here. I was actually unaware of my unhealthy obsession until a friend pointed it out to me the other day. My “thing”, as it turns out, is my obscure decision to continually wear the same argyle sweater anytime I am heading out to an event, or family function, or grocery shopping, or to get the mail, or to work, or…you get the point.

The truth is, I have no idea why I was gravitating to that particular sweater but I’m guessing it has something to do with my recent weight loss. You see, there isn’t a lot of nice clothes out there for us short and rounds, so I had been getting by on heavy sweaters and button up shirts that were way too big. When I recently reached the stage where I could fit into a nice piece of clothing such as the aforementioned argyle sweater, I guess my brain when in to shock and kept leading me towards it at every turn.

I really had no idea how bad it had gotten until the third person mentioned it, which then led me to take a peek at my recent photo albums…

Glennon Melton Momastery

The sweater with Glennon Melton of Momastery

Hannah Alper WeDay

The sweater with WeDay speaker and friend, Hannah Alper

fall family photo

The sweater made it to our family photo shoot!

Angelina Ballerina

Angelina Ballerina had nothing but kind words for the sweater.

Sam Roberts

Canadian rock star, Sam Roberts, was too busy laughing at my stache to notice the sweater

Blissdom Canada

Who could forget the sweater’s appearance at Blissdom Canada??

That is only half of the pictures I had to choose from. In other news, the sweater in question has now been sent on a short vacation while I investigate my closet for other items…

The Curious Case of Missing Buttons

All in all, I probably own about five pairs of pants that I actually wear. Six, if you count pajamas. Yeah, I know, bearing my soul today and opening the doors of my closet for all to see. A “man behind the man” glimpse, if you will. Anyhow, back to my pant collection; I know five pairs doesn’t sound like a lot but it gives me a solid five day outfit rotation for my day job, so I’m happy.

The reason we are taking about my pants today is that there has been a strange occurrence happening lately and I need your help in getting to the bottom of it. Out of my five pairs of pants, only two of them still have a button on them, which leads me to the question, “Where are all my buttons going?!”

I’ve created a list of possible scenarios and would love to hear your thoughts on the matter as well. Here’s what I think could have happened:

1. The Button Elves – Though I’ve never actually seen one of these guys, the legend says that they creep into your bedroom at night and steal your buttons. Traditionally known as shirt button thieves, you can’t discount the allure of a larger, more solid button.

2. Frosty the Snowman – Unfazed after being questioned by police about a stolen shipment of corn cob pipes, Frosty is now said to be stocking up on noses for the winter.

3. The Dryer – The “Dryer Stole My Button” is the new “Dog Ate My Homework” and I’m not really buying it. If only one button had gone missing this would be a more plausible answer, but three buttons? No way.

4. My Wife – That’s right, I said it! My wife runs a daycare, where buttons are like currency to a house filled with crafting kids and they never seem to run out of them. I’ve been playing it cool so far but I’m on to her!

That’s all I’ve got for leads so far and I’m hoping you all can help me figure out where all my pant buttons have gone. In other news, I have lost 8 pounds in two weeks and am now below 200lbs for the first time in over a year! With my pants fitting better, it sure would be nice to know why my buttons have all been disappearing…

Diagnosis: Fat!

I was hanging out with some friends the other day (yes, I have friends). As we always do, we were telling the same old recycled stories we always do, while laughing at them as hard as we always do.

It occurred to me, in that moment, that my new blog has given me a new venue to tell these stories and I thought I would share one with you right now.

It all began with some back pain.

I had been experiencing some pretty severe hip and back pain for a few months before I finally decided to go to the doctor to discuss it.

He did some tests but in the end decided it would be best for me to see a specialist.

I’m going to interrupt the story here to let you know that for about 3 years, I dealt with a pretty intense bout of hypochondria. I probably visited the emergency room more than some doctors and that’s no lie.

So to hear that I was going to see a specialist was both good and bad news.

The good news was that I was going to see the magical specialist who would fix all my problems and send me on my way.

The bad news was that my doctor didn’t know what was wrong and I was going to a specialist because I was most likely going to die.

5 months later…my turn in the specialist appointment line had come. I waited patiently in the bacteria pit and taunted the other patients with my strut as my name was called.

I gave the doctor my test results and he looked them over in a very serious manner. He asked questions about my work life and general habits which I feel I answered to the best of my abilities.

After what felt like an hour (probably more like 3 minutes), he was ready for the diagnosis. Here is a word for word account of the results.


Doctor: “Okay, so here’s what I want you to do”

Me: (Very excited at the possibility of recovery) “Okay, I’m listening” (Notepad and pen ready because I forget things)

Doctor: “I need you to go to a Wal-Mart or Department Store”

Me: “Okay, great!”

Doctor: “You’re going to go in there and you’re going to want to buy yourself a good scale”

Me: “Scale. Got it!” (Huh? He’s a doctor, so we soldier on, no questions asked)

Doctor: “Then you’re going to go home and stand on it. Then write down the number.”

Me: “Write down the number. Check!”….”Like my weight, you mean?”

Doctor: “Yeah, your weight. After that, I want to you to get on it again each day and make the number equal less than the day before”

Me: (Pathetic, fat, hypochondriac finally gets the message) “Yes sir…”


At first I was mortified at the response and even a little angry. That was actually one of the first times in my life I had been called fat and I’ll never forget it.

It was also one of the first moments that made me realize how ridiculous my obsession with dying had become. I can’t say I’ve done the best job with his advice from that day but I have managed to conquer my anxiety towards death and that’s a big step for me…and for my wife, who I’m sure was getting tired of all the complaining!

Don’t worry, I still complain. The difference is that now I complain about real issues, like why I have to do dishes or why the cars drive so fast on our street when there are so many kids outside playing.

In the end, the angry from the diagnosis subsided at about the same time that I told the story to my friends for the first time. The laughter that ensued at my expense made me grateful to have had the experience at all.

Hope you all have a great day!!!