Weird. With all this “nontraining” running I’m doing, I’ve lost weight.
I’ve been kind of bragging/lamenting/bragging to Tim about it for a couple of weeks and he’s chosen to (mostly) ignore me. He knows this is a minefield. If he agrees/notices/comments, he’s in for the inevitable firestorm of: SO YOU THOUGHT I WAS HEAVY BEFORE? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME I NEEDED TO LOSE WEIGHT? ARE YOU ANALYZING ME?
Not that I am ever this paranoid/irrational/insane. Nope.
But finally, this morning on our run, after I’d brought it up for the 437th time, he casually said, “Maybe it’s because you’re not eating like a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers anymore.”
Um, I’m sorry? Could you repeat that?
And while he looked like he wanted to whip an Invisibility Cloak out of his ass, he stood his ground and repeated it.
“I said, maybe it’s because you’re not eating like a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers anymore.”
I didn’t even know what to say. Tim is truly the nicest guy I’ve ever met. The nicest person. My entire family likes him best. All of our friends like him best. My dog likes him best.
But, linebacker? From the Pittsburgh Steelers?
Yes, I do love me some cupcakes. Okay, cake of all kind. And steak. And every type of Mexican food, even that sauce covered stuff they serve in places that aren’t on the border. I pretty much can’t go a day without some sort of chocolate, or nuts, or avocado. And I don’t think life is worth living if crab legs don’t show up in front of me at least once a month (with several sides of melted butter, obviously). I’d never dream of using anything but real butter, real sugar, or whole milk. I don’t understand how putting butter AND sour cream on a baked potato is too much. And why bother to even eat if doing so involves ingredients with the words “low fat” or “diet” attached to them?
But does any of this mean I eat like a ginormous football player when I’m in heavy training mode? Does this mean…I eat like a guy?
I guess it does. So, in light of Tim’s loving revelation (thank you, hon), we will be having lettuce soup and rice cakes for dinner.
She who controls the kitchen, controls the world. Or at least her husband’s.