My husband’s on a diet, and there’s no living with him. I thought after years of watching my weight, going on various diets and finally settling into a comfortable poundage at my age that I could relax, enjoy food and stop worrying about the scale.
So what if I can’t tuck in my blouses anymore? Or wear a belt? Or model any of the cute styles teenagers are wearing these days? I like my baggy jeans and loose T-shirts. Besides, my shoes still fit, and they’re more important. At what point do I stop caring about my post-post-partum bulge or teacher-flappy arms and actually wear a bathing suit outside of the dressing room?
The problem is, my husband was the cook. He never skimped when it came to using gourmet ingredients when whipping up chicken marsala (530 calories) or loading a baked potato (690 calories.) Naturally, I ate whatever he cooked, otherwise I’d have starved to death.
But suddenly he’s gone on a diet. His doctor said he needed to lose weight if he wants those achy knees to get better, that indigestion to go away and that tummy to slim down enough to see the scale he stands on. So he signed up for one of those weight-loss problems that guarantees you’ll lose a bunch of fat in less time than it takes to pay off a cool-sculpting debt.
I had my doubts, since he’s not one to pass up another trip to the buffet or let leftovers go to waste, but he’s been sticking to it and winning the war against his waist. Good for him. Bummer for me. I just can’t get into those packaged meals that taste like the package instead of the meal, but he seems to enjoy them. Meanwhile, I have to forage in the fridge to find a moldy piece of cheese or what used to be cole slaw.
I’m trying not to complain. He looks great. When he’s not dieting, he’s riding his new e-bike from here to Walmart and back, a distance I’m too lazy to even drive. But he’s also sharing the details of his daily bike route — every twist and turn — and calculating his calories loud enough for me to hear through ear plugs.
I don’t know how much longer I can take his updates, let alone go without sugar, salt and fat. I’m dying for an In N Out Double Double animal-style cheeseburger and fries. I want a chocolatey Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino with extra whip. I’ve even been dreaming about cheesy puffs dipped in marshmallow cream and covered with a drizzle of hot fudge.
I know I should join him. I could use to lose a few pounds if I want to look like Jennifer Aniston in a bathing suit or at least Helen Mirren. But I love chocolate too much — and pizza, doughnuts and frozen yogurt with more toppings than actual yogurt.
So if you spot me going into See’s, just look away. I’m only buying enough to make it until dinnertime. Then I’ll have a nice hard-boiled egg, some lettuce leaves and a handful of nuts. If I keep going, maybe I won’t have to unbutton my jeans when I sit down and rip out the elastic in my bra when I can’t breathe. I can live without a bathing suit.
Penny Warner is a freelance writer and author of children’s books. Reach her at pennywarnerink@yahoo.com.