Appetizer?

     I am huge fan of diet plans. Safe diet plans. I am even more of a fan than I ever used to be too. Let’s face it, as we age our bodies slow down and every LITTLE thing we eat wants to stay on somewhere…conspicuous! I used to be the type that could eat anything I wanted and wouldn’t gain a pound. Now I focus on soup and salad for dinner. I am very careful about this.
     I am trying to convince my husband who is not so careful about this, it is actually the type of food and not necessarily the amount one eats that makes them put on weight. He doesn’t seem to get it. We have a twelve-year history, having only been married for 5 of those years, I am trying unsuccessfully to reform him.
     Like a child who sees their possessions as an extension of themselves, he sees Henry VIII-ish sized portions of food as an extension of himself, it is very difficult to plan a meal for someone of such large feasting abilities; I, of feeble appetite prefer something light and non-caloric, so I solve this enormous problem with multiple menu planning, which truly is a pain in the ass.
     Although, sometime before I married him, I made it very clear that I had absolutely no desire to be married to an overweight human he still doesn’t quite understand what an overweight human actually is since he makes such comments as, “That ‘fat’ mutherfucker just cut me off!” I find this quite perplexing.
     I also find it endlessly annoying for him to indulge himself the way he does as he sits with a can of cashews, throwing them into his mouth, partially chewing, then throwing more in, as he does this, he eyes me, knowing that at any moment I may launch into a long dissertation of those eating habits that cause a human to be three or four times their medically recommended weight.
     I usually end up leaving the room at this point, he feels insulted that I don’t want to spend time with him and starts in about that. I simply inform him that if I wanted to hear farm animals slopping at the trough, I would own them. That is when his voice comes barreling out of his chest, with bits of soggy cashews, “what are you trying to say?” I realize I am married to a cross between Al Bundy and Tim Taylor, but he can’t really be that stupid. This is subject matter that has made regular appearances in our marriage, so he knows damn good and well that I am trying to say that he is a FAT, ICKY PIG!
     I have begged, I have threatened, and I have negotiated, promised sexual favors and a divorce. It all fails. If I don’t buy food, he ends up panhandling in the streets to amass enough funds for a Biggie Burger and Fries. I have shown him how his car leans agonizingly to the left as he drives it down the road, and it might just flip over one day if he doesn’t lose weight. I have presented the statistics of overweight men in their fifties, and that it is only because “I care about you,” (cough cough).
     Since I have taken to sleeping on the couch, (I fear the bed will flip over too) we fight about THAT. So, occasionally I slide into bed, all thoughts of snoring and a night full of disrupted sleep aside. He does his elephant-seal roll over to my side of the bed slobbering gloriously at the prospect of finally getting some sex.
     This is something I can hardly bear to think about, so I just close my eyes and pretend that I am being seduced by my imaginary lover, Rolpho. I also keep my face away from his, careful to avoid his breath, which smells so often of leftovers. I also want to avoid seeing any of the action that is occurring.
     His “boobs” hang over me, his belly complies with the pull of gravity and they all swing threateningly like medieval pendulum blades. I don’t fear being cut in half lengthwise, I fear his dying of a heart attack, and being trapped to suffocate to death.
     The other thing that happens when one is approaching fifty, is facial features distort, cheeks, lips, baggie eye skin all hang in compliance with gravity as well. Believe me, this is not at all a comforting thing to see.
     He finally reaches his peak, and I, by mistake open my eyes and look up at him. I lock in immediately on some particle of food that had been trapped in the corner of his mouth, and for some time too, because it has evolved into a grayish spore. And contemplating this expressively, he starts asking me what is wrong, and then rapidly arrives at the solution all by himself, gliding his hands through his tousled mop of gray, he comments that he needs a haircut. Smiling to myself, my brain responds, that is not all you need.
     I tried to get him interested in a gym membership; he just tossed the information aside and mumbled something about not having a snack bar there. This is apparently what makes movie-going a perfectly acceptable activity. All activities with quick food access are okay.
I want to park the car, and get out to take photos of the city we happen to be in. As long as there is a hot-dog vendor nearby he will stop and get out, otherwise the day will be spent driving. I get no pictures taken and stress levels spear through the roof.
     Our house is equipped with a deep freeze, in which we stock sale foods. When turkeys go on sale at a good price we buy enough to last for the rest of the year. Same thing with Prime Rib roast, and so on.
     Since I act in the capacity of household manager, I assure that there is plenty of food at all times. However, at the arrival of paychecks, BIG daddy rushes to peruse the sale ads, convincing himself we are at the edge of STARVATION and feels compelled to buy MORE food!!!
     Now, this probably explains why any off-road excursions have him packing as if we are about to trek to Bangladesh on foot with an enormous entourage. Think of what a nightmare Christmas is. He requires that we purchase enough Chex Mix for an army, mashed potatoes in phenomenal abundance. Salami, cheese, and every other holiday snack food in shameful quantities. All this food for just our family….and HIM!
     He should never have married a thin wife. He wasn’t fat when we married, he knew that if he tipped the scales he would never get me to say “I do” but once that happened, it was as if someone pulled the emergency inflation cord…mega-tonnage overnight.
     So, I’m stuck, married to a farm animal. This is God’s way of paying me back for every thing I did wrong, I just know it. And to be honest, I never thought the things I ever did wrong were really THAT bad.

Shannon Michele Johnston

• messageboard feedback