Bob is on a
Diet
“I hate myself,”
Bob said, trying on last year’s shorts. “I ate that baked
potato last night.” He turned this way and that in the mirror.
“Do these make me look hippy?”
“No Bob. Nothing
makes you look hippy. You’re thin, OK? You’ve been thin all
your rotten life. DO YOU FULLY UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM
SAYING?”
He didn’t get my
tone. The tone that means I wholeheartedly resent his ability
to lose weight by switching from D’Angelo’s steak subs to
their give-me-a-break Steak D’lites.
Living with a
dieter is a pain.
Living with a
successful dieter is hell.
“If you can pinch
an inch,” he said squeezing his tiny waist, “it’s time to
cinch.” He tightened his belt one notch. “This way I’ll stay
motivated.”
He continued
scanning his body in the mirror. “I have my mother’s thighs,”
he said, shaking his head.
Now you know I
want my husband to be healthy. I just wouldn’t mind if it
entailed, at the very least, a teeny tiny minor struggle to do
it.
He just had a
physical. I was happy he was getting his cholesterol tested
because he eats so much crap I figured he needed a wake-up
call. His cholesterol number came back a terrific 156. You can
blame it on genetics. You can blame it on whether or not you
were breast-fed. You can blame it on solar storms or some 666
devil thing in the bible for heaven’s sake. I don’t care what
YOU blame it on. I blame it on Bob.
I am not usually
a nasty person. Really. But I know over a million women who
would love to see their husbands endure a little hardship to
lose weight. You know what Bob endures? Biscotti. He believes
that hard things have fewer calories than soft gooey things so
if he eats biscotti (chocolate covered is his favorite) he’ll
lose weight. And get this – he does! Oooh. I’m seething. When
is the last time you, any female readers, had a chocolate
biscotti? And did you have it with no guilt? Hah! I’d like to
meet the woman who eats fattening delicious food without
guilt.
Why do I feel
guilty when I eat something on the forbidden list? First of
all, it’s because it’s forbidden. Why that makes anything more
exciting beats me. But I also feel guilty having an occasional
ice cream because I’ve decided there’s something
self-indulgent and therefore wrong about
it.
I temper my fun.
It’s my grandmother’s fault (not mine of course – I’m only 50
– way too young to take responsibility for my bugaboos). She
used to warn me about being overtly happy. If I made it too
obvious that things were great, some deity would notice and
put the kibosh on my happiness, which meant that something
awful would result because of my glee. So oohing and aahing
over food always resulted in a “tone it down or the Mir will
smash into the supermarket when you’re buying brisket” look
from her side of the table.
I ask you. Is
that any way to live?
Bob is not like
me. He eats with his eyes closed, relishing every bite. He
lives that way too. I try to learn from him. I don’t begrudge
him his joy. I do, however, begrudge his weight loss ease.
I knew he’d never
eat better after those great test results. So I took him to
see Hannibal. Since then, he hasn’t had red meat or anything
with tomato sauce, or entrails, I mean sausages,
again.
And I’ve changed
too. I still eat mostly salads but when I indulge in a banana
split, I do it with my eyes closed. Things do taste better
when you concentrate on them fully like that. Plus, that’s the
only way I can avoid picturing
Grandma.
