Weighty Conversations

Yesterday morning I spent 45 minutes on the treadmill.  I said no to an after-dinner ice cream sandwich even though I had the calories left to eat one.  I did not have a single brownie from the pan that has been sitting on my counter since Sunday.

And I've been living like this for almost three months.

I'm telling you this to explain all the news articles about pigs winging their way over an icy hell.  And also because it will help you understand why, when my 7-year-old said to me yesterday, "Your stomach looks like it's getting bigger, Mom!" I thought briefly about punching him.  

It did not help me feel better when my husband came home last night and said, "Look how loose my pants are getting!" What did he have for dinner?  Pizza.  What did I have for dinner?  Two measly ounces of pasta with fresh tomatoes.

I told him I was going to treat myself to a calorie-free Fresca before bed. "Are you going to have anything?" I asked.

"I'm still really full from dinner," he said.

It turns out that I really know how to scowl. 

Earlier, he had pocket-dialed me from the pizza restaurant where he went to pick up dinner for his coworkers (it's tax season so it's dine-at-the-office time).  I could have hung up on him, but instead I started crooning into his phone, "Daaaavvviddd... this is your conscience...  Don't eat too much pizzzzzaaa."  In hindsight I should have been like, "Get the gelatoooo."

Okay, not really.  I love and adore my husband and I want him to be successful in his weight loss efforts!  Just not, you know, more successful than me. 

Kidding!  (Sort of...)  But really, why is it SO MUCH HARDER for me to lose weight than it is for him?  He's all, "I'm down 17 pounds!" and I'm like, "I looked at a cookie yesterday and gained three pounds."

Even workouts are easier for him.  We tried this Jillian Michaels workout together a couple weeks ago and he said afterwards, "My abs are a little sore."  Yeah, um... this workout literally crippled me.  For three days I could barely move.  When I had to go to the bathroom at church I chose the handicapped stall because I needed a bar to hold onto just to lower myself to the toilet.  And I don't even want to talk about what I looked like trying to get down the stairs.  

Let's just say I've had a preview of myself at age 90, and it's not pretty.