For the first 44 weeks of each year, I'm a pretty disciplined eater, at least by my own, admittedly poor, standards. I limit myself to a couple of pieces of toast every morning, I take in a decent-sized lunch, and a healthy dinner, with seconds if it's something I like. (I like a lot.) But I eat vegetables and salads and don't eat desserts, cookies, candy or potato chips or drink soda.

It's not as if I could find any junk food in our house even if I wanted to. For years now, my wife has been pretty disciplined about shopping, as well, skipping all the refined, processed, sugary foods, and looking carefully at labels for low fat and high fiber. Our kids complain, bitterly, that if it weren't for Grandma's sneaking in packages of junk food for them on a weekly basis, our family would qualify as Amish.

It's my fault. Somewhere around 1990, I started to get fat. Up until then, I could eat what I wanted, drink whatever I wanted, and I'd be fine. Sure, I gained a little bit each year, but I started out so skinny (134 pounds when we got married) that I spent my 20s and 30s just trying to get up to a fighting weight.

In 1990, however, I crossed some invisible line of no return, and suddenly my waistline started growing -- fast. If I stood real still and you tried not to blink, you could see my belt tightening. One day I looked down and couldn't see my feet unless I craned my neck forward. That day I vowed to watch what I ate, do regular sit-ups, and drink only in moderation. And I've kept my vow year after year, at least for the first 10 months.

When the end of October rolls around, though, eight weeks' worth of complete and total gluttony begins. It starts with Halloween, when the kids bring home sackfuls of candy. I start raiding their bags for mini Snickers bars, or grab three or four of those little Nestle's Crunches, and before I know it, I'm washing down movie-theater sized Caramello bars with a 2-liter of Coke and looking for more. By a few weeks after Halloween, when someone offers me just a single Hershey's Kiss, I'm enraged. It's almost an insult. (I eat it anyway. I don't want to be rude.)

Thanksgiving follows soon after, hitting while I'm still trying to come down from my sugar high. I start on the day itself, filling myself with so much turkey and fixin's that I waddle away from the table like an Emperor penguin. If I trip and fall down, I'll burst like a water balloon. We always have mountains of leftovers, so for two weeks I consume huge piles of stuffing for lunch, sweet potatoes with marshmallows for breakfast. I'll shove a bit of apple and pumpkin pie into my mouth every time I pass through the kitchen.

By Christmas Day, of course, I've reached full behemoth weight and my pants will no longer button. (Not a problem. I've learned to adapt: I'm usually wearing a sweater at this point, and as long as I don't walk too fast, the zipper alone will keep my trousers up.) When I approach the Christmas dinner table, I look like a sumo wrestler preparing for a championship match.

The week from Christmas to New Year's is sort of a cool-down period. There's another bird carcass to dispose of and usually some ham, too. After working those digestive muscles overtime for so many weeks, I'm afraid I might pull something if I were to quit cold turkey. So I continue to eat at a brisk pace with a staple of my diet being, ironically enough, cold turkey.

The eating and drinking spree ends, abruptly, on Jan. 2. On that day, I get up, look in the mirror, and sigh. If I've done my job right, like a hibernating bear, I'll have put on enough fat to get me through the winter. Somewhere around Easter, I'll have lost enough of my girth that I can button my pants again without having to hold my breath.

Until then, though, avert your eyes if you see me coming in a sweater. If that zipper gives out, it ain't gonna be pretty.