While I’ve made good progress in my aforementioned muscle-gain efforts, I recently began to question whether the results were worth the work. Up twelve pounds of lean mass, and the difference was only slightly noticeable. Should I keep packing on the pounds, I wondered? And, if so, how many?

Sure, I had a sense of what might happen if I went wildly too far; Sylvester Stallone and I, for example, measure in at the same height, though he tips the scales a solid 50 pounds past my comparatively svelte 145. But while I’d have no desire to climb anywhere near Rocky’s steroidal ridiculosity, there’s certainly a rather large gray area between me and the former (fictional) heavyweight champion of the world. Wasn’t there some more aesthetic weight in between, I wondered? One where people, upon seeing me, might assume that I went to the gym, but not that I lived there?

Then, this weekend, as part of a wild movie-watching spree (an occupational hazard of film producing), I popped in to catch The Italian Job, a bland yet resonably enjoyable big-budget heist film. After, rooting around the web to find the various stars’ filmographies, I discovered that Mark Wahlberg also matches my height, and weighs in just past 165. There was my answer. While I don’t wear Rambo-esque headbands (okay, maybe occasionally), I certainly own enough Calvin Klein’s to make Marky Mark proud.

So, 165. Not that I could pack on another fifteen or twenty pounds of muscle any time soon. But it’s nice to know that, if I could, it would likely be well worth the work.