Battle of the Bulge

With most of my pants at the dry cleaner, I wore a pair to work yesterday that don't usually see the light of day; a pair I got during my senior year in college in anticipation of an internship interview.  They didn't fit.  I could barely breath all day.  I mean it.  By 3:00, I decided it made sense to undo the button, leaving the pants held up only by my belt and zipped up fly.  In denial, I chalked the whole thing up to an expected and typical waistline expansion that comes naturally with the latter twenties, having accumulated more sedentary time behind a desk than was spent in college altogether.     

This morning, while getting dressed, the button on a different pair of pants actually EXPLODED. 

This evening I found myself back at the gym.  Having run two miles and change, I was lifting some weights, Pearl Jam blaring on my iPod.  I was doing reverse curls with a 25 lb. bar when it happened.  I bent down.  Back straight.  Up we go.  Something popped.  Deprived of my hearing, I was left to play detective.  I was frantic.  It felt like a major pop.  Something big. Something terrible.  What the hell was that?  What just happened?  Did someone just slap me on the ass?  I looked at the strangers behind me in the reflection?  No.  Absolutely not.  That'd be ridiculous.  Did the herniated disc in my back just explode?  No.  As I twisted my back, it felt loose.  It was fine.  Did I just shart trying to pick up 25 lbs?  Worse yet, did I just blow my rectum trying to pick up 25 lbs?  I've read about that happening to weight lifters.  Presumably, they're lifting more than 25 lbs. I looked down at my legs and shoes.  Nothing.  No poop.  No blood.  Endlessly confused, I turned to look at the people behind me for clues in their gestures.  

My boxers actually split, errrr, EXPLODED, waist to grundle.  

Welcome to middle age, Seamus.  We've been waiting for you.  Do the Evolution.