I'm lazy. Exhibit A: My digital video recorder (DVR). This fine machine begs me to come home and view hours of recorded programming on medical deformities, aspiring fashion designers and DIY meth labs ‑- all while lying comatose on my sofa. Throw in a sweet boyfriend alongside me, and being stationary seems sexy ‑- enter the " happy pudge." Oh, love, it's the root of all evil.

This is when it gets really evil.

One Sunday, the boyfriend was minding his business when I did the unthinkable. I asked him if he thought my breasts looked bigger. He turned, looked down and said, "Yeah, they look good. You've gained a few pounds." The poor thing.

I'll skip the part where I burst into tears, sheer terror filled his eyes and I started screaming "Sweet Jesus!" like a banshee.

Let me be clear. I'm not obsessed with my weight or reliant on what my guy thinks about my body to make me happy. However, I grew up in a family where almost everyone is overweight ‑- not only overweight, but riddled with diabetes, high blood pressure and heart disease. It's not just about weight ‑- it's about mortality. When you start to see your body change and your metabolism slow down, a whole new set of priorities come into play. My growing chest wasn't the issue ‑- it was that damn family history.