Marriage Emergency: My Husband is on a Diet.
Yes, my husband is on a diet. I can’t. What is this phenomenon? Why can’t he leave well enough alone? The last time he went on a diet he cut back from three beers to two, and he lost 9 pounds.
In a day.
I know, you think I am exaggerating. I wish I was.
So this time it was a Tuesday. I was sitting at my vanity putting on my face and he stormed from the shower wearing nothing but a towel and naked determination. Steam and some masculine, piney, ocean-like, sea turtle musky scent followed. He’s a modest guy, so I questioned where he was headed with no pants.
“Where are you going??”
And he said, “Scale.”
My insides screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
And my mouth nearly said, “IT’S MINE!!!! GET YOUR OWN!” Then my marriage vows bubbled up. Mine, his, ours… sigh. I said a quiet prayer that I hadn’t left the knob on the “store your last weight” setting. Truth be told, I don’t know how that works. And also, I just want to forget.
I simply whimper/muttered, “Why?”
That striking jaw, steady brown eyes, he stepped on the pink contraption while simultaneously brushing his hair, swaddled in a fluffy yellow towel – an amateur move. Who weighs themselves in a stitch of ANYTHING? I shave my legs before I step on the scale. He looked at his feet and then he said, “That’s it! I am determined. I am losing eight pounds!”
“Oh, good for you,” I said, but what I felt was… “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
He drank a plant-based protein shake for breakfast. He measured out an eighth of a cup of almonds for a snack. At 11:00 he was hungry but felt it was too early for lunch, so he ate a baby carrot, yes one. At lunch, he made a salad, WITH NO DRESSING.
No dressing. At one point he squeezed a lemon on it and said, “I could get used to this! It’s nice to taste the authenticity of the flavors.”
At 3:00, as he dressed 3 ribs of celery with a 1/4 teaspoon of low-fat cheese spread and sipped on 2-liters of mineral water, I lost it. “TIGHTEN YOUR BELT AND STOP TUGGING AT YOUR FREAKING JEANS.” He looked shocked, cause truly, we don’t talk to each other like this. He nervously laughed, “That’s weird, they were too tight this morning.”
Yes, shockingly weird.[clickToTweet tweet=”At 3:00, as he dressed 3 ribs of celery with a 1/4 teaspoon of low-fat cheese spread and sipped on 2-liters of mineral water, I lost it. ‘TIGHTEN YOUR BELT AND STOP TUGGING AT YOUR FREAKING JEANS.'” quote=”At 3:00, as he dressed 3 ribs of celery with a 1/4 teaspoon of low-fat cheese spread and sipped on 2-liters of mineral water, I lost it. ‘TIGHTEN YOUR BELT AND STOP TUGGING AT YOUR FREAKING JEANS.'”]
At dinner, he measured himself 6 ounces of tilapia with a little lime squeezed on top, which he steamed and ate with 1/2 cup of broccoli… also steamed. He chased dinner with 3 fat-free, high fiber cookies and 1 cup of skim milk. Skim milk he couldn’t finish because he was “So full.”
Yes, I want him to be healthy. I know, I am the worst. But dieting is my thing. He has his own stuff; power tools, The Antique Road Show, Star Trek, and Chess. Also, bar-b-que and he can fix ANYTHING. Once he repaired a busted radiator with a pair of galoshes and a zip tie. That car went another 362 miles before we put it in the shop.
Dieting is mine.
Granted, I am terrible at it. But that is simply because success breeds success and I tend to fail, a lot. And he had instant success. The next morning he was at goal weight. He celebrated with pancakes, bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and also… pancakes. He chased that with a cheeseburger, but as an ode to his “new lifestyle” he took the top of the bun off and used light mayonnaise. He didn’t measure the mayo, he may as well have used full fat. I didn’t say anything. He switched to light beer, and by the third day, he had to buy pants 3 sizes smaller than he wore on Tuesday and someone asked me if he was my son.
He is four years older than me.
The peacocks get fancy tails, mallards gorgeous heads, and male humans have extraordinary metabolisms. Why are these the truths of life? I don’t understand why God organized these things in this order. And I am not questioning Him, well, yeah, I guess I am. I don’t know why I have to have the metabolism of a Barbie doll. Seriously my body temperature is like 94.
And I do all the things, but I have to be consistent for 42 days and then maybe I will drop 2 pounds. I can Zumba, spin, walk, lift, and if I splurge and have a tablespoon of raisins on my salad, I am up three pounds the next morning.
I wish I was kidding.
Certainly, I know I am created different, for breeding purposes or whatever. But come on, his “new lifestyle” lasted 9 days, he lost twelve pounds, went back to his “old lifestyle” and lost another 5.
Someone, tell me how this is fair?
I lost 38 pounds for vacation, and I gained 42 while on vacation. From there, I dipped into a terrible depression where I would only talk to goldfish crackers and banana popsicles… and I gained 19 more.
My most favorite things about the man diet is when they give man diet advice. Like, “you should try eating fewer carbs…” Yes, and you should try and have babies and lactate. I have been dieting since the 8th grade, I doubt I need some dude to tell me that cheese has low carbs.
I KNOW ALL ABOUT THE CARBS.
I can calculate Weight Watcher’s points like Steven Hawking can calculate, well, the stuff Hawking calculates. I am that good and I don’t need some 29″ waisted, Johnny-come-lately trying to explain net carbs to me. Net carbs are the fuel to my fire.
Truly, he gave up the top of his hamburger bun and is ready to run an iron man. I haven’t had a hamburger bun in 11 years… nothing happens, however, were I to eat a hamburger bun I would have to buy maternity clothes for the bloat.
And if there is anything I can’t stand it is man bashing. I love my man. He’s an amazing father, a fabulous husband, and he can two-step like a pro. He has dragged me around a sawdust floor a time or two. Truly, he seems to only get more handsome.
But I delight in thoughts of hiding his body in a trunk when he cuts calories.
And yes, my favorite show is Snapped, so I know what not to do. I don’t want to have to rent a storage unit and hide my beloved in a utility barrel, although he would fit nicely with room to spare. But I need him to eat his food and leave the diet conundrum to me. Sure, I recognize my folly. And yes, I am willing to admit, I have problems.
Still, I don’t’ need him adding to my problems by eating my lettuce or worse, questioning me with a twinge of concern, “Are you sure you want to make a batch of cookies? We are having such a good eating day.”
Are we? Becuase if “we” are eating so well and fulfilling all the diet rules and self-fulling prophecies of “a good eating day” how come I just ate a bowl of cookie dough in my closet? And if things are so grand, why did I just make a mock grocery list that had hidden “common household items” that can also be used to clean up blood?
Answer me that slim?
I mean sweetie.
Truly, I am going to get my bearings about me. This is going to be okay. I always feel better after I get my dark side out on paper.
Also, I listened to 80’s one-hit wonder love songs and ate a can of frosting… and cried. I wouldn’t change much about my marriage… our 26th wedding anniversary is in 8 days. I vowed for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Until death do us part, or I kill him in his sleep because he lost 11 pounds in 9 minutes.
This is marriage, wedded bliss on carrot sticks and protein shakes.
Oh my, he wants to go on an after dinner walk…
Jesus, come back soon. Amen.
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
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