There’s this picture I’ve been dying to scan of Brian and me. It was taken about thirteen years ago, back when we were young and semi-hot. I’ll have to see if I can try to extract it from its cheap plastic frame without doing any damage to it, because it’s very sentimental. Not because of how in love we were or anything pukey like that – it’s because of how good we look in it. We were spending the day on the lake that day and to think that I once so carelessly wore cut-off’s and a half-shirt that says “Girls Rule!” Without thinking twice. And Brian’s shorts are practically falling off of his fit ‘n trim frame.
He’s been complaining lately of this little gut he’s managed to put on in the last couple of years. I have little-to-no sympathy for him, because I know a couple of weeks working out in the 7th circle of Hell South Carolina Summer sunshine and it’ll be merely but a distant memory. Bastard. And really – even if it didn’t disappear? Biggie. So his stomach sticks out a little more now. It’s barely noticeable, because it doesn’t show in his face (unlike me), his arms are still muscular and un-flabby (unlike me) and he doesn’t have to carry around two huge melons on his chest (very unlike me). For him, weight will probably never be an issue, and hey – bully for him.
But here’s the thing. I live with the guy. And no matter what people say, after you’ve been married awhile, at least for most couples, life does become somewhat less adventurous. While we used to do things like golf, bowling, hiking, skiing (both kinds), and the occasional mosh pit (you’d be surprised how many calories you can burn that way) on a fairly regular basis, that stuff is a lot more rare these days. Especially since he works outside – I can’t really blame him if after eight hours of heat-related torture he doesn’t get excited after he gets home about going BACK outside, let alone my idea of buying some his ‘n her bikes for quality couples’ cycling. All he wants to do is sit in the a/c, eat a good dinner and ten or twelve after-dinner snacks, and relax. And I totally understand, but where does that leave me, the blob who sat behind a desk all day? Any physical activity I do at night is pretty much going to be solo (well, save for one, but this is not the appropriate forum for that), at least for the next three or four punishing months.
It’s a sad fact that most guys can eat to their hearts’ content and not have a care in the world. I’m not saying there aren’t some obese men; I know there are. I’m saying MOST guys, or at least all the ones I’ve ever been with. And Brian? The guy loves to eat. His parents tell me he’s always been an eating enthusiast. One of the reasons he was excited to move back here, his hometown, was the opportunity to eat Momma’s Southern Sunday dinner every week. While this has been one of the most satisfying parts about wifedom for me, the cooking for someone who truly appreciates it (when he gets really hungry and excited for dinner, he even does this cute little dance), it’s also been a detriment to my waistline (and gut and exploding boobs). While I realize I’m a separate person from him, I’ve found a lot of times his habits rub off on me. And I don’t think I’m alone in this dilemma.
Last night, for instance. He got home around five and like most days lately he wasn’t even close to being hungry. Ninety-five degrees with one-hundred and ten percent humidity will do that to a person. But with the new habits I’m trying to implement for myself, the best thing for me right now is cooking and eating dinner fairly soon after I get home, to try to be done with eating before 7pm. Before six would be even better, but that’s not realistic for me. He doesn’t get hungry until somewhere between 8 and 9:00 and then he makes up for lost time, eating anything that isn’t nailed down. I suppose I should just cook dinner for myself and tell him he can eat it when he’s ready, because this isn’t going to cut it. I ended up eating a bowl of cereal at 7:00 and feeling unsatisfied and cranky the rest of the night. He ended up eating half the contents of the fridge and pantry. Yet all his clothes still fit him.
To reiterate: Bastard.