A few months back I tried to get my ass (which at that point had widened to such vast proportions that I could catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye) into my favorite jeans... It wasn't happening. The jeans allowed themselves to rise only so far when I pulled them up, and no further. I think that they, wisely, were fearing for the integrity of their seams. I could not blame the jeans for their refusal to comply with my desire to stuff my chub into them (self preservation and all), so after I pulled on a pair of not-in-any-way-lose yoga pants I went in search of someone I could blame.
My squinty gaze fell upon Cookie.
Love of my life, most awesome Manperson ever, and saboteur of any and all dieting plans I've had in the last 4 years.
As I neared my blame-target the dogs fled for the safety of the Under Bed Region, the sky darkened, and I'm pretty sure that super-ominous music (night on death mountain or something) started up in the background. Cookie, unaware, lumped on the couch nomming a day old piece of Jet's pizza.
"You!" I said, as I hove into sight.
"I love you, too!" said Cookie. "Want some pizza?"
"AAArrrraaaghhhh!" I said (because I am all sorts of verbose and shit).
"Huh?" said Cookie, past a mouthful of mozzarella, sausage, and mushroom bliss... Drool...
"My pants don't fit." I stated, squinting at him, squintily.
"OK..." he responded, obviously confused about what he had to do with my pants.
"You keep feeding me!" I wailed, resorting to dramatics to get my point across.
"But you like food?" He said, painfully befuddled at at this point in the proceedings.
I poked my belly to illustrate my next statement, "I'm such a goo."
"When you do that it makes your boobies jiggle." He said, full of boobie-lust.
I soldiered on, eventually hoping to penetrate his man-cluelessness, "I don't want to be a goo and you keep feeding me when I'm trying to be good and now my pants don't fit."
"Uh... Ok?" he replied, finally setting down the nearly feeding-frenzy inducing half-gnawed on square of pizza.
"Quit feeding me." I said. "And make me be good. Use your Domliness for something other than the purposes of evil."
"But I like making you happy and good food makes you happy."
"And being fat makes me less happy. See how that works? Short term unhappiness for long term happiness." At this point I could tell that I'd lost him as he has the metabolism of a racehorse on speed, often forgets to eat because he never feels hungry, and hasn't had to diet a day in his damn man-life.
I sighed, "Just help me be good, OK? Please?"
And he has.
Using his Domliness for good, he's ordered salads when I just want to put a hurt on a burger. He's doled out Girl Time Tribute Chocolate in sensible amounts. He refuses to buy "bad" things at the store, and when I go on a recipe testing baking frenzy he hauls all of the results to work to pawn off on his co-workers (who are now starting to complain of expanding waistlines while praising the yumminess of my treats).
And me? I have lost 23 pounds (after a brief birthday/Xmas binge hiatus).
I even convinced him to buy me an exercise bike (granted, we got it at Salvation Army so it was one hell of a deal, but still I get on the damn thing every day at his urging and pedal my out-of-shape little heart out).
This is my real life. The stuff I don't write about. I don't know why, but I thought that I would start... And this is what you get.
Sorry.
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