Today I walked to work. Two miles, as the crow flies. Fifty miles as the aging, out-of-shape desk-jockey with the balding head and bulging stomach waddles.

No, the old rust-bucket truck didn't finally die. It's just something I'd planned to do ever since I moved to Rhode Island. "Look, honey, the house is only two miles from work. I can walk to work every day if I want."

I just didn't want.

Not that I particularly wanted to today. It's one of the those things.

Okay, one of those wife things.

"The weather's getting nice. You going to walk to work tomorrow?"

Between my waning hearing and the y-chromosome induced trance whenever the TV is on, I mumbled what I always mumble. "Uh huh."

99.97% of the time, "uh huh" fulfills my half of the conversation adequately. And so it seemed last night. If my brain functioned properly, it would have pieced together the clues. Little hints like my wife saying, "I'm so glad you're going to do something about getting more exercise," or "do you know where you tennis shoes are?" or "Don't forget to set your alarm clock extra early to give yourself time to walk to work."

It's my own fault. I had promised to start walking to work a while back. "If I don't lose this weight by Christmas, I'll start a new diet. " That bold promise was followed around Christmas time by "We all know that holiday activities sabotage diets. But after the first of the year, I'll do something serious about my weight. Promise." Sometime around Feburary 14, I said, "Happy Valentine's Day, honey. Don't worry about these extra five pounds, there's just more of me to love." "Really, dear, this time I mean it. When the neighborhood softball league starts up, I'll be right there for tryouts." "If I'm not down to my ideal weight by my birthday, I'll walk to work every day."

She woke me up this morning with a "Happy Birthday!" and a new pair of white walking shoes. Bright white. The kind of white only seen in bleach commercials.

So I was stuck. She believed me so completely that she had saved up what she found in my wallet and gotten me a pair of shoes. I couldn't back out.

I'm not tremendously overweight. And it doesn't look bad on me, as long as I suck it in and hold my breath while I'm talking to you. But it's harder for a guy than a gal. A little weight on a woman makes here more -- uh -- womanly. A little weight on a man does NOT make him more manly. But even if that distinction wasn't there, women do not normally wear a tape measure around their waists. But every morning, I strap a belt around my bulging middle to help me suck it in. Nice and tight to hold my pants up and my gut in. And every day I see if I'm gaining or losing inches.

One notch. Two notches. It's a little too obvious to a guy.

"Oh, no!" My wife would yell. "That washing machine has shrunk all of my clothes. Every bit of clothing, even the stuff that hasn't been out of the closet since last summer, has shrunk!"

But my belt doesn't let me lie to myself.

Leather doesn't shrink on its own. When you're a guy, just looking at how many holes in the belt show wear from last month's waist size forces you to admit that your self imposed two-twinkie limit just isn't working. When faced with the facts, there are only three solutions -- diet, exercise, or pretend you didn't notice.

So I walked to work.

It's going to take some sacrifice. My wife's going to have to walk the dogs since I'll be too tired from walking to and from work. I'm going to have to stop running errands on the way home from work since the store's out of the way. And since I can't come home for a lunch in front of the TV, I'm going to have to get my lunch every day from one of the resturants across from work.

Let's see, today I have a choice of McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or Dunkin Donuts.

About the author, Paul Pence: Not a life-long Rhode Islander, Paul got to Rhode Island as fast as he could. He has 25 years of writing experience and numerous publication credits including the Providence Journal, the East Greenwich Magazine, Weissmann Travel Reports, Travel Lady Magazine, Jackhammer, Your Skin and Sun, TravelNotes, TexWoman, and many others.

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