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 Note to Bob:
Don't Tell Me I've Gained
Weight
Get The
Stinky Broccoli Out of My
Face
New Year,
New You. New Hogwash
Note to Bob: Don’t Tell Me I’ve Gained
Weight
About a month ago, when
I was taking a shower, I noticed that my thighs were in competition
with the giant redwoods for one of the wonders of the world. Apparently I’ve been taking
this sandwich generation thing a bit too literally. I said to myself, “Don’t
ruin your life because of weight. A few extra pounds is not a
big deal. This whole
obsession with our bodies is crazy.” I had thrown out my bathroom
scale weeks ago just like the experts advised. “And while we’re on the
subject,” I continued my self-therapy, “we should never have let
this pear-apple fruit business see the light of day. My body falls more in the
vegetable category, sort of a hybrid of an acorn squash and a
turnip, but that’s still categorizing and I resent the hell out of
it. "Fight the fruit!”
I say. I finished my
shower feeling so new age.
As I donned my million
year old used-to-be-pink chenille bathrobe and headed toward the
bedroom closet, my reverie was broken by my husband Bob. He said that if I had a
minute, we needed to talk.
Now Bob is such a nice guy that these really serious talks
usually mean something like he caught me throwing out the celery
ends instead of putting them in the kitchen compost container. This issue comes up a lot
because I hate his disgusting smelly compost. We have the only kitchen
that can boast of a fruit fly population than winters over. But that’s another
story.
“Sweetheart?” He patted the bed so that
I’d sit next to him.
“Yes, dear.” I sat
down.
“I know that this is
not going to make you feel good, but, frankly, you’re putting on a
little weight. I know
how important it is to you so I wanted to say something before you,
well, . . . . ”
I stood up
defiantly.
“Before I what,
Bob? Sink the Queen
Mary with my girth?”
“No. That’s not what I was going
to say.” He
sighed. “Please sit
down. I’m only telling
you this because you’ve told me a thousand times to tell you if
you’ve gained weight.”
“Well, you should have
known I didn’t mean it!”
I was steaming.
He threw his hands up
in the air. “How was I
supposed to know you didn’t mean it? You can’t say one thing and
mean another.”
“Oh,” I was still
standing. “Not only am
I gaining weight faster than a speeding bullet, now I don’t
communicate right?”
He put both hands over
his face and shook his head.
I didn’t speak to him
for three days.
He bought me roses, two
novels and a white silk blouse. Nothing was good
enough. He would pay
for this for the rest of his life.
On the fourth day, I
asked, “How bad is it, Bob?”
“How bad is
what?”
“MY WEIGHT! WHAT ELSE COULD I POSSIBLY
BE TALKING ABOUT?” I
thought I’d explode.
“It’s not bad,
really. No one would
even notice. I just
thought you wanted to know.
I’m very sorry I said anything at
all.”
“Well, so am I.” The thoughtless
cad.
Bob could eat deep
fried fat all day every day and not gain an ounce. My doctor promised me it
would catch up with him some day, and I planned on greeting that day
with a vengeance.
That afternoon while he
was rummaging through the compost just to make sure nobody had snuck
in anything like fine china, I said, “When did you first notice
it?”
“Notice
what?”
I growled through
clenched teeth, “My weight.”
“Sweetheart,
please.”
“I want to know,
Bob.”
“No, you don’t.” He picked out a chicken bone
and gave me a look.
“Yes, I do. You started this whole
mess. Now tell
me.”
“Well,” he took a deep
breath, “when you were wearing your gray sweat pants, your rear end
looked a little more spread out.”
“I’m not asking for
details, Bob.”
“Oh God help
me.”
“What is it, Bob,
fifteen pounds?
Twenty?” I was
escalating.
“It couldn’t be more
than five, really.”
“Oh yes it could.” I went to the fridge and
took out a leftover roasted chicken leg. Slowly, I took a long drawn
out bite of it before I went over to the compost container and
dropped it in. “I know
it’s more than five.
How much is it?
Twenty-five?
Thirty? You
better tell me, Bob, now!”
“Okay, maybe it’s
between ten and fifteen pounds.”
“You insensitive
monster. I suppose you
think this whole thing is funny?”
“No, I really
don’t.” He picked the
piece of chicken out of the compost and this time he knew enough not
to give me any looks.
“You think I’m getting
upset over nothing?”
“Well,” he said. “You are going nuts over
something that’s not all that earth
shattering.”
I thought about the
kitchen knife. The
serrated one.
“Now look,” he
said. “I just want you
to be happy. It’s time
to get over this and stop being so mad at
me.”
I thought it over and
said, “Well, I want you to promise me that you will never, never
tell me something like this again no matter how often I tell you to
tell me.”
“I promise,
sweetheart. I really
do.”
So far, Bob has kept
his promise. I was
certain he would.
Every morning, when
I’ve finished dressing for work, I walk into the kitchen to find him
reading the newspaper, and I ask, “Does this make me look
fat?”
He always says,
“No.”
Sometimes, I don’t
think he looks up.
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Get The Stinky
Broccoli Out
of My
Face
As the holidays draw near, we take
this special time to focus our emotions on what really matters most
of all.
Our
weight.
Frankly, I think popular holiday
dieting strategies are a bring-down. Can’t we relish a few lousy
meals without worrying about our
waistline?
I thought I had a pretty savvy
attitude until Bob and I went out to dinner after Christmas
shopping. I’ve read Fat Is A Feminist Issue. This dieting
obsession does a real
number on women’s (and men’s)
heads.
Bob ordered chicken with steamed
broccoli. I ordered spaghetti with two sides of garlic bread. When I
asked for butter as a dipping sauce for the bread sticks, Bob
touched my arm.
“You don’t really want that,” he
said.
“What exactly is
that supposed to mean?”
“I know you. You’ll hate yourself
tomorrow.”
I dunked a bread stick in butter.
“Are you trying to say I’m
fat?”
“No.” He took his napkin and
dabbed sweat from his
forehead.
“I don’t look any different than I
did at our wedding.” I rolled the pasta around a fork and sucked it
off. “Do I?”
“Well . . . ,” he cut a piece of
broccoli in half and offered it to
me.
I whacked it out of his hand onto
the table. “Do I?”
“Your face has more character,
that’s all.”
“I know what that means. It means
I’m fat!”
“I love you no matter what you
look like,” he said.
“Oh, that’s a good one.” I dumped
the whole jar of parmesan on my spaghetti. “And I love you even
though you’re as sensitive as a Lyme-infested tick. You gave me a
doctor’s scale and a full length mirror last
Xmas!”
“That’s what you
wanted!”
“Are you crazy? I said that, but
you should never have done
it!”
Later that night, he came into the
bathroom where I’d been sulking in the tub for two hours. He said
gently, “You always worry about gaining weight over the holidays.
I’m just trying to
help.”
“Trust me. There’s not a woman in
the universe who wants this kind of
help.”
“Should I lie to
you?”
“Of course. Now, let’s try again.
Have I changed?”
“Well,” he cleared his throat,
“just a very little
bit.”
“What you really mean is I’ve put
on enough weight to buy clothes in the tent department of
Circuses-R-Us.”
He stared at me in
disbelief.
“What’s the matter?” I yanked the
curtain closed. “Haven’t you ever seen the Colossus of Rhodes take a
bath?”
He pulled the curtain back. “These
things aren’t what’s
important.”
“Oh really? Get your high school
picture from my top drawer. We’ll see what’s
important.”
A dying baby bird sound came from
his throat. “That’s not a good
idea.”
“Can’t take it, can
you.”
He reluctantly got the picture. I
grabbed it. He’s thinner now. “How dare you show me this? You better
have an apology.”
He took my hand. “I shouldn’t need
to tell you I love the way you
look.”
“Oh yes you should.” I was calming
down.
“And the person you are is more
important than looks. Not that you don’t look
great.”
I made room as he climbed into the
tub. I covered my stomach with my
arms.
“I never want to get to the stage
where we cover things,” he
said.
“But you don’t have any things to
cover.”
And with great aplomb and perfect
timing, he moved my arms and lovingly lied, “Neither do
you.”
And so, I plan to celebrate the
holidays without food guilt. If a few pounds show up, I won’t get
angry at myself. That way, I can focus on what matters most of all.
The love I give and receive, my precious moments on earth and the
wondrous and joyous miracle that Sara Lee now makes Chocolate Chip
Cookie Crumble Cheesecake.
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New Year, New You.
New Hogwash
Every New Year’s Day,
as a community of humanity, we all wake up pondering the prior
night’s resolutions. Then in a collective consciousness of
togetherness, we utter these profound words: “Why the hell did I say
that?”
Resolutions are a
set-up for failure. If we haven’t followed through with something
during the last 365 days, why should today be any
different?
I say, “Ban the
resolutions!” I’m not going to blame myself for falling short of
them any more. I’m going to do the mature thing. Blame someone
else.
“You’ll help me lose
those last stubborn pounds, won’t you?” I said to my husband
Bob.
“Happy New Year to you
too, sweetheart,” he said, getting out of bed while I was looking at
the lumpy chunk under my waist commonly known as a
stomach.
I continued, “From now
on, every time I reach for the butter I want you to say, ‘You
shouldn’t have that. You know you’re a little heavy.’ Then I’ll turn
to you and say, ‘Thank you, honey. You’re so good to me.’ It’ll work
out just fine, don’t you think?”
He laughed so loud the
dog and I jumped. “Here’s what will happen,” he said. “You’ll reach
for the tub of butter. I’ll try to stop you. You’ll put your hand
around the back of my neck and mash my face into the
tub.”
“Please help me,” I
said. “Have you seen this thing?” I held up the sheet and pointed to
the mound.
“If I agree your
stomach’s big,” he said, “you’ll go
ballistic.”
“I won’t. I promise.
We’re best pals!”
He looked at my ode to
Mount Vesuvius and said, “Well, you could take a couple inches off
that thing.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I’ll
find something you could lose a couple inches
from.”
“That’s it,” he said,
walking away. “I’ve made a resolution
myself.”
“What is
it?”
“I’m not going to be
the fall guy for your weight problems, the way I am for every single
problem you complain about. This is your issue. Not mine.”
So, I realized I had to
take charge of my quest. After all, it was the only fair thing to
do.
“I’m not eating any
more carbohydrates,” I vowed loud enough for Bob to hear. “That
means you can’t have pizza. And say good-bye to bread. It’s evil.
The FDA’s taking it off the market you
know.”
“Bread isn’t the
problem,” he said, wiping our counters with the super absorbent
dishtowels I got him for Christmas.
“Oh no? So, tell me.
Since you obviously know more than all the weight loss experts. Why
can’t I lose weight?”
“Because you eat too
much.”
“Hah! You are so out of
the loop. It’s bread. The staff of death.”
“And another
resolution,” he said, “is that I’m no longer agreeing to be the
patsy for all your articles. We went to four parties last month. And
everybody patted my shoulder and said, ‘So you’re Bob. What a good
sport.’”
“Everyone loves you.
People fawn over you. Nobody even said, ‘Hi Saralee’. They said,
‘Where’s Bob?’ If I stop writing about you, all of America will
protest.”
And so, we’ve scrapped
the resolutions. I can write about Bob. And bread is back on the
menu. But he did add one thing.
“Well, you could make
me out to be a little less peculiar,” he
said.
“That’s one resolution
you can count on me keeping,” I vowed.
And he gave me a hug,
put on his lace-trimmed gingham apron and tenderly took this
morning’s quiche out of the oven.
And so, New Year’s Eve
and Dorothy’s ruby slippers have something in common. They only have
potency because of our will to make things work. As the good witch
said, “You’ve always had the power to go back to Kansas.” Our
resolutions don’t depend on a particular day. We’ve been wearing
those ruby slippers all year long.
Happy New
Year.
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