My husband and I have been gaining weight. He’s gained in the double digits x (I’m not telling – I have to live with him) since we got married and I’ve gained “none of your f-ing business” lbs. As a guy, of course, the weight gain is pretty much fine and dandy. As a woman, the “slight” weight gain is totally unacceptable, a disaster, and will potentially result in a lawsuit against my doctor. He’s the smart guy that told me hysterectomies don’t cause weight gain, Haagen Dazs does. If there’s one thing you want in an OB/GYN, it’s a snappy sense of humor.
In an attempt to lose some weight and gain some health, hubby has decided to give up adult beverages for a month. I applauded his determination and was suitably impressed until he suggested I give up adult beverages for a month as well. After I caught my breath from laughing hysterically, I told him, “No way, Jose.” (I believe in teamwork and mutual support, but there are some things that are sacred and unbreakable – like my relationship with Chardonnay.)
(Does this make me look fat?)
In my own defense, I HAVE cut down on my adult beverage intake. I’m also drinking vodka/sodas because they have a lot less sugar than my Chard. The point is, (as I remind hubby when he glares at me and my bottle of Svedka) I FEEL as though I am suffering. The pounds should be practically dripping off me, but they’re not.
In the good old days of my youth, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, all it took for me to lose weight was one small adjustment like that. Maybe I’d stop ordering fries or onion rings with my cheeseburger, or stop buying chips with a sandwich. (Don’t hate on me. I have LOTS of other challenges in life that make up for 35+ years without weight issues. LOTS.) No one – especially Dr. Wisecrack (no pun intended) ever warned me I’d eventually lose that glorious weight shedding capability. The bastard.
So, here we are, hubby and I – one of us sobering up, and one of us having sobering thoughts about having to be in a swimsuit in a mere three weeks. Maybe I should quit drinking after all. Maybe I should get that stupid jump rope back out and jump my ass off. Literally.
Or, maybe I should stop eating and JUST drink.
I’ll think about it at Happy Hour.