My husband is wearing his age. Almost. He’s just jumped from a size 56 to a 60, and the man is 68 years old.
Now, why divulge this news? Well, the Lord & Master, wisely, does not read our blog, though he’s wildly in favor of its existence. However, he regularly inquires what I’ve written about him lately. (As if I’d tell him.) But after this spectacular explosion was discovered at California Big & Tall Casual Male, I thought he deserved the spotlight.
I’ve been begging him to join me at Weight Watchers, to which he replies, “I can’t sit for that long,” referring to the half hour meeting. “Gee,” I note, “and yet you can sit in a restaurant for double that amount of time. Hmmm.” Or he’ll say, “I’ll just eat what you give me,” meaning it’s up to me to track his points. No way, buddy. If you bite it, you write it.
Yet it’s still painful watching him suffer. Every aching joint on him, the trouble sleeping, all of it comes down to the extra poundage he lugs around. The other day he asked me what made his knee hurt so much. “Your stomach,” I told him. I can’t help it, I’m a truth-teller.
As I’ve told my fellow foodaholics, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I have lost 45 pounds living with the man I love. For my next miracle, I intend to drag my beloved along to a meeting. Weight Watchers is AA for food, but, hey, at least you only have to show up once a week. Keep those fingers crossed, America.
For now, I’m just praying that our jaunt to Italy doesn’t push him past size 60.