This is the deal: Tonight Rich called me fat. And no I’m not exaggerating. I’m also not misinterpreting. Those very words came out of his mouth, or very close to them and under circumstances where I was feeling very vulnerable. ::Sniff::
Telling your wife that she is fat would be bad under normal circumstances, but I think that it was particularly cruel considering that I am in the middle of a crisis of personal appearance and I am sick with some gross mung throat thing that is making me delirious with pain. I mean, I could have antibiotic resistant strep throat. What else would make my uvula as large as the pendulum on a grandfather clock? It was possible that I could choke on my own spit or be unable to breathe.
And for me to visit a medical professional I have to be feeling lousy enough to think I might be dying, with, for example, the Swine Flu, West Nile Virus, meningitis or maybe a full body staph infection, something like that. Everybody knows that, including Rich. The fact is that I am the least doctor-going person in our family. My husband happily makes the trip for more maladies than I can commit to memory. My 88 year old mother schedules appointments with so many specialists that I have keep track of them on an excel spreadsheet. And my youngest son misses school weekly for an asthmatic condition I’m not even sure he has, but that provides him with an excused absence. But, me?: I go so rarely that the clinic’s turtle obsessed receptionist that’s been around for the 15 years I’ve been there, didn’t even recognize me or pronounce my name correctly. That made me feel terrible; we gifted her with a Costa Rican Loggerhead Turtle replica not too long ago. I’d remember that, wouldn’t you?
After I got home from the pharmacy, alone, I took pain meds and antibiotics for my throat, drank water because I knew it would be good for me and tucked myself into bed to try to sleep off the gross sickness. But, sleep wouldn’t come, probably because my throat was still sore as hell and I was hungry. There I was at home starving because not one of the many relatives I feed daily thought to throw me a bone for dinner. So, I wandered around the house in my pajamas, gnawing on a loaf of bread, attempting to figure out something productive to do with my evening. What better first option than waxing my upper lip? When I finished with that I gave myself a manicure and pedicure, cutting my heels to shreds with one of those callus removers. Then, I made a list of hair things I needed to schedule like a color, which included high and low lights, and a cut. I think I may have ordered some sandals on-line for my now bleeding feet. Subsequently, I started feeling really sad about all of the time consuming things I have to do now, at the age of 51 to beautify myself. They seem excessive not only in terms of time I can’t get back, but in terms of spending money that I don’t have. It follows logically that after that I thought of cartouche because she says she doesn’t color her hair, and I’ll bet she doesn’t have any unwanted body hair or calluses on her feet like I do.
By the time my husband came home, I was feeling pretty low, and after he folded himself into bed and started to read, I plopped down on top of him and started recounting the litany of mostly aging things that were upsetting me on this nadir of a gross day. When I mentioned the personal appearance things, he said something about plastic surgery, which confused me, although I guess I could see that laser hair removal would be advantageous, and although I hadn’t mentioned my aging face, I guess I could see where a nip and a tuck here and there could be useful. But, then he said something about liposuction, which is where I got really confused. I was on medications so I was feeling like I might have missed connecting the dots in the conversation, so I said that I didn’t know what he was talking about because I hadn’t mentioned my weight as an issue. Then came the bombshell. He said, “Well you’re fat and it’s an issue that needs to be addressed.”
I left the room and here I am now on the couch, listening to the roar of the air conditioning, and the roar of him snoring, and I’m wondering what to do with myself other than to go to visit a plastic surgeon and get a personal trainer STAT. My last thought before I went to sleep was cartouche's skinny body that doesn't even remotely need liposuction.
I woke up this morning and Rich vehemently denies saying any of those things. He brought me tea. He thinks I was delirious.
I am confused.
What would you do?