Holiday Survival: One Man's Story

Making me look like Santa seems to be my in-laws' reason for the season. As everybody else gets into the holiday spirit, the buttons on my pants and the springs in my bathroom scale start getting really nervous.

Gaining weight is as much of a yuletide tradition for the guys in my family as experiencing holiday tune fatigue by about November 30 and clueless shopping for women (on December 24). Forget the greetings; we're all about "Season's Eatings." Heck, we can't even decorate our tree without putting candy on it.

That's why it's a good thing Blitzen or Vixen didn't run over our grandma. There would've been serious consequences for plowing down our family's dealer of homemade peanut brittle and chocolate-covered pretzels. Reindeer jerky, anyone?

Grandma has since moved on to the big kitchen in the sky, but even still, holidays tempt my taste buds now more than ever.

My problem? I got married.

Resisting my mom's mouthwatering festive creations – from turkey stuffing to pies – has been hard enough. But now it's nearly impossible to fend off the additional multi-pronged attack of goodies tossed at me from my wife (caramels), my mother-in-law (pumpkin cheesecake), two bonus grandmas (scones and sugar cookies) and numerous aunts (truffles, toffee, turtles) all trying to feed me their love. And boy, do they love me.

The fourth Thursday of November kicks off my annual feasting festivities with a diet-disaster doubleheader. To keep peace with everybody's parents, we hit my mom's house and my in-laws. And by hit, I mean stuff myself silly. It's too much food times two. My much-thinner wife avoids the food hangover, but I go hog wild at the troughs – from pigging out to watching pigskin to looking more like Porky.

The in-laws make sure December isn't much easier with several holiday adventures; attendance, mandatory. One party has so many calories invited they have to rent out a rec center to hold them all. Just imagine a Las Vegas buffet in a gym, but replace the noisy slot machines with sounds of screaming children and swap Lady Luck with a potluck that includes spuds, pasta salads, chips and dips, cheese balls and gooey brownies. And that just describes what one of the nine aunts brings.

Then there's my wife's grandma's food-fest, and her recipes all include butter or shortening. Sometimes she just serves butter with shortening. I jest. To her credit, she switches food themes, so gaining weight is an international experience. It could be Chinese (deep-fried egg rolls and wontons) or Mexican (fried tortillas) or Idahoan (potatoes). Since that's not enough fattening fun, Grandma has a New Year's Eve bash that thwarts healthy-eating intentions with cheese and chocolate fondues.

My wife's great aunt and uncle also host an annual eat-a-thon that resembles a NASCAR event. For hours, participants race around an oval track/table, only occasionally pulling over to fill up on the ham sandwiches, éclairs and sparkling punch. The pit stops are brief. Serious competitors don't waste precious time chatting and trying to remember how they're related. They just keep circling and snarfing. Guess who's the Jeff Gordon of that party?

Christmas Eve and Day are also diet traps. We again bounce between our parents' homes, eating a huge ham spread, enough crêpes to make a thin Frenchie blush, snacks from stockings hung with care, and a traditional Christmas night dinner – all washed down with eggnog, cider and Pepto-Bismol.

That's not even mentioning gifts of chocolates and baked treats from neighbors, family members and friends. Throw in a Christmas feast at our church, two grub-centered work parties and a cubicle that's way too close to the food editor's, and it's no wonder why my pants and scale have a bah-humbug attitude.

So this year, don't just wish me happy holiday — wish me luck.