This morning, my husband walked into the bathroom where I was working my magic with makeup (leave me to my delusions, would you?) and said to me, “These are my biggest fat jeans. We’re going to have to do something.”
Excuse me. “WE?” My initial impulse was to blast him with a stream of words so foul; they should be uttered only by Satan himself while sitting on the toilet. But I held my tongue. Still, hours later, here I sit, replaying the scene in my mind. Here are some of my thoughts, for those of you lucky enough (and when I say lucky enough, I mean with the bad fortune) to stumble across my screed this morning.
- I am still struggling mightily to make peace with my own issues with the dreaded middle aged spread. What makes you think that I want to take on yours as well?
- Do I look like the Grand Solution Poobah to you, or are you just so accustomed to my intervention on your behalf for all things that make you uncomfortable that it’s a natural assumption that this is a “we” problem? Don’t answer that – it’s rhetorical.
- Need I remind you that neither of us cares much for dinner, making that the only meal which you eat that I have control over? Ergo, if we rarely eat dinner, am I not already doing my part for your “campaign of svelte” by not cooking fatty, calorie-laden foods for you every night? The fact that I loathe cooking in general is moot. In this instance, I’m doing you a favor.
- Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems obvious to me that if I don’t have the intestinal fortitude necessary to haul my fat ass up off the couch to do my own exercise routine, chances are pretty good that I won’t be much help to you in that department. The ball’s in your court on this one, dear.
- Lastly, are you calling me fat? Because unless you have a frog in the pocket of those jeans, your use of the pronoun “we” pointedly says that you are including me in your list of those who “need to do something.”
So, go on with your bad self. Knock yourself out. Diet, run, jump, fast and pray – whatever you feel inclined to do. But leave me to my jolly, fluffy self. I will keep praying that some morning I will awaken to find a pile of ugly fat lying beside me in bed (no, not YOU, dear, I’m speaking of MY fat.) My dreams will have come true and the skinny woman inside of me will have escaped at last.