Last week, Brad bought a book and announced that he was going to commence something called a "slow carb" diet -- a month-long get-fit-quickish plan to lose a bit of the marital blissweight he's gained since we tied the knot. This is happening just in time for a March trip to somewhere warm and beachy where shirts will not be worn -- location as yet undetermined, but it (the vacation) is desperately needed. (And it should also help with THE SAD.)
The Book recommends measuring weight loss in inches and taking "before" photos of your previously-pudgy self to serve as a motivator when the going gets tough. And tough it is, since there's also a strict eating plan: six days per week of naught but protein, vegetables, and legumes. (On the seventh day, the dieter is required to binge on carbohydrates in order to prevent ketosis. And also, insanity.)
Brad asked if I could modify our daily dinners to accommodate his diet. No problem; I'm too lazy to make separate meals, anyway.
He also threw away all the carbs in the household. Too much temptation.
At which point I realized that unless I want to hide secret stashes of Cheez-Its all over our apartment, I, too, am on the Insanity Diet. By default.
Which is fine, really. Not that I expect to see results, weightwise (I'm at my sustainable skinniest these days), but a few weeks scale-back on the refined sugar and processed starches can't hurt, and it's good to support one's husband regardless.
And so the Insanity Diet also became that cliche of all cliches, the Couple Diet. Meal plans were made; waists were measured; Brad made a vow to "get serious about chickpeas".
But you guys. You guys. Just because I'm doing all that, it doesn't mean I was okay with this.
Scene: Our apartment, Saturday night. We're getting ready for an evening out; I am scrutinizing the state of my skinny jeans.
Me: Ugh, this isn't working today. I feel like my thighs look like a pair of giant hams encased in denim.
Brad: Maybe this is a good day to take your "before" pictures!
Me: (Five-minutes of silence wherein I open and close my mouth like a goldfish and then stomp out of the room.)
Maybe this is a good day to take your before pictures?
MAYBE THIS IS A GOOD DAY TO TAKE YOUR BEFORE PICTURES?!!!
....Well, okay. Obviously, these things happen; obviously, men sometimes say really, really stupid shit to their wives. But -- but! -- here's the takeaway:
Consider that my husband not only did not reassure me as to the un-ham-like-ness of my thighs; and not only implicitly confirmed that my thighs did, in fact, look like hams; but also suggested that they looked so much like hams that a photo of them in their current hammy state would be a spectacular motivator for the weight loss plan I do not even need to goddamn be on in the first place.
And then, consider that despite said suggestion, I did not kill him.
Which is to say: clearly, the reason that I don't need the Insanity Diet is that my self-control is off the motherfucking charts.