There comes a time in every woman’s life when she’s got to decide whether or not she’s going to keep the vow she made when she was young and naive, back in the days when her head was full of hearts and flowers and her love life seemed like a juicy romance novel.
That time had come for me. What I was doing wasn’t working any more. The only option left was to go back on everything I’d ever believed and enter a brave, new world of excitement, thrills and dangerous liaisons.
But would Hubby let me?
“Get real,” he said, without even looking up from the paper. “The last time I tried to help you with your workout program you attacked me with a dumbbell. Thank God Rita held you back.”
“I’ve changed,” I said, hoping the tone in my voice showed how much. “I’ve seen the light. Rita can’t work out anymore and I can’t do it by myself. I need you.”
He grunted.
“Really and truly. According to our friends and family, your stellar pectorals make you a highly sought-out personal trainer. And I need one.”
The blunt approach always works best. Besides, it was the truth. I mean, why buy a cow when you’re married to the milkman? And he looks like Arnie Schwarzenegger?
His eyebrows rose over the top of the newspaper. “You’ll do everything I tell you to do? No complaining? No more flying dumbbells?”
“I promise.”
“And you’ll let me weigh you?”
I swallowed. Hard.
“Well?”
“Okay, OKAY!'”
He tossed the paper aside and jumped up, rubbing his hands together.
“Do you realize,” he said gleefully, “that in all these years of marriage I’ve never known how much you weighed?”
Like I was supposed to tell him? Where do men get these weird ideas?
“Onto the scale!” he ordered.
“I can’t weigh myself now!” I cried, appalled. “Why, it’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon!”
He looked at me like I had asked him to read a few lines from the latest bodice-ripper. Like he really didn’t know that there is only one Right Way to Weigh Yourself, a universally-accepted procedure consisting of the following steps:
- Wake up, go to the bathroom.
- Brush the crud off your teeth. Be careful not to swallow any water. (Every ounce counts.)
- Take off all your clothes, including any underwear. (Again, every ounce counts!)
- Calibrate the scale. If it is even one hair’s breadth above the zero, the overage will be increased exponentially with every pound. (If the needle rests slightly below the zero it just cancels out ounces added by variables like wind direction and humidity.)
- Place one foot on the scale and slowly transfer your weight from the floor in a calm but deliberate movement.
- When the first foot is in place, lift the other foot and place it gently on the scale, too. (If you need support during the transition, hold onto the towel bar.)
- Let go of the towel bar very, very slowly.
- Exhale.
- Look down at the dial and note the weight.
Unfortunately, my man adheres to The Wrong Way to Weigh Yourself, an imprudent process practiced at health clubs and medical offices and consisting of the following steps:
- Get on the scale.
- Note the weight.
This wildly risky method has been known to startle a scale into reckoning you weigh 5 or 10 pounds more than you really do.
Like Hubby cares.
“I’m waiting!” he said impatiently.
I was pretty much forced to leap fully-clothed onto a poor, unsuspecting scale with breakfast and lunch under my belt. Naturally, the scale spooked. Big time.
In fact, it would’ve stampeded out of the bathroom if I hadn’t pinned it down to the floor.
“Holy cow!” exclaimed Hubby. I reached for the dumbbell rack.
“I was kidding!” he added hurriedly. “Really. It was a joke.”
Ha.
I guess all this means we are really and truly married now. And perhaps it also signifies a whole new chapter in our relationship–heck, maybe even a whole new romance novel!
I could call it… The Holy Cow and the Milkman.
Danielle Steele, eat your heart out.
My goodness, Bonnie, you are possibly the funniest woman alive.
You cracking me up! 🙂