Alright, I admit it. While I wanted to keep it a secret in order to maintain my luscious sex appeal (which I still may maintain if "off the market" is your style), I have to fess up. I have a boyfriend.

Really, the only reason I need to own up now is because I'm running out of that juicy, oozing-with-good-gossip material that comes from going on bad dates. Instead, I have sweet stories, moments of romance, and bedroom bliss – you know, the kind that makes most cynical, sarcastic haters like me normally want to vomit. I know, tragic.

However, in confessing that I'm no longer single, I get to admit to you the real relationship rhetoric, the parts that I couldn't talk about as a single woman. Case in point: love handles.

Now, I know what you're thinking: How in the world do love handles have anything to do with a boyfriend? At most, don't they constitute that part of your middle that your lover can hold onto as you do the dirty? Well, yes and no.

I would like to argue that love handles are named as they are because they are born and exist in the time of love, as in, you get fat and happy.

Now, I've not added on the pounds to the extent that I've had to buy new clothes or would hurt anyone's eyes in a bikini. No, no. Rather, I've added just enough poundage to really piss me off. Me, not my boyfriend.

You see, he doesn't seem to care and/or notice – at least not that he tells me – that I've put on some weight. It’s just that little bit of softness around the middle caused by numerous aspects of a good, healthy, we-have-way-too-much-sex relationship.

You may disagree, but I encourage you to test these out or, at least, apply these to your own relationship and see how they match up with reality. They are as follows:

1. You actually eat three square meals a day.

That's right: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. OK, so you kind of did this before. You grabbed a granola bar on the way out the door in the morning. You gorged at lunch with your friends when you suddenly realized you'd not fueled your body all day. And then, at dinner, if you remembered to eat dinner, you had a bowl of cereal or, at most, grilled one of those frozen chicken breasts with a little Italian marinade from a bottle. (Dessert was typically half a bottle of wine – you know, to help you sleep.)

But then, then you start dating someone, and all of a sudden, there's a reason to make breakfast in bed (or have it brought to you), meet up for lunch at a quiet bistro in Beauregard Town, and cook an actual dinner. That's right; I'm talking a dinner with all of the food groups. Then you realize that it'd be great to make pie or cookies and have them stocked around the house for those times when you want to give something sweet to your loved one. (Ugh, I sound like one of those relationship-help books. I'm sorry; so, so, so sorry. Just stay with me, please.)

So that's how it starts. A full meal here, a full meal there, and before you know it, you are feeling the waist of your jeans get a little bit tighter after that home-cooked meal.

It doesn't seem fair or right or just in any way, shape, or form. It just happens. But that's only one cause.

2. You suddenly can't find the time to go to the gym anymore.

You don't feel like your schedule has changed. You get up, grab a coffee and a shower, and head to work. You get off work and call your lover (insert gender here) to make plans for dinner and a beer to knock off the stress. You eat together, make ample use of your kitchen countertops (insert wink), and before you know it, you both are ready to pass out or make ample use of the bed. (I shouldn't have to insert a wink here, but I will. Insert wink.)

You don't really feel that busy. Back in the day, before relationship romance and sex-filled Sundays, you found time to hit up the weights and do a little bit of cardio. Why, oh why, does it now feel that you couldn't possibly fit a workout into your hectic, post-coital, hazed schedule? No one knows.

And you justify it, you know? You say, "We're having so much sex, it must mean that we are getting a workout, right? What if we take turns being on top? What if we try standing, or that position where you're standing with your knees bent, and I hold onto the bed, facing away from you, and wrap my legs around your waist? That's kind of like doing calisthenics and push-ups all at the same time, right? I mean, I'm totally exhausted afterwards and my whole body shakes for a good 30 minutes before I'm ready to go at it again."

But no, you aren't really burning that many calories. Well, you could, but I'd be really very interested to find out what you're doing.

3. You've lost the panic of fight-or-flight that happens at the bar, in the club, or waiting behind that seriously cute guy in the grocery store checkout line.

You don't even realize the switch, really. One night you're hanging out with the girls. You see a guy, he smiles at you, and you get that panic, that fear, that stress. And that stress burns calories.

On top of that, it makes you reach for the Red Bull^® and vodka rather than the stout Belgian beer. So you're consuming high-energy, performance-fueling concoctions while you stress about whether your tops look good. Do your boobs look full enough? Bouncy enough? Firm enough? Has your makeup started to melt from the heat of Louisiana summer nights? Did you remember to stash condoms in your purse? Oh God.

And that stress has kept you young, perky, and thin.

But then, oh then, you meet the guy, fall in love, and live happily ever after. So when you drop by the pub for a drink, you reach for the indulgent, high-in-calories cocktail or stout ale with loads of carbs. Because, you see, drinking is now about relaxing and having fun, not about getting liquored up enough to consider taking one of those losers home for a little midnight romp.

Of course, I have no scientific or statistical proof for any of this. All I have are an extra five pounds and a few tight pairs of jeans to serve as my personal evidence. So this is my warning to each of you venturing out on first dates: Beware; be very cautious. You, too, may fall victim to that nasty little pitfall of the oversexed, under-exercised, well fed – the love handles.