Monday, August 31, 2009

It Was Self Defense! I Swear!

This morning, after weighing himself and finding out that he's gained a few pounds, my husband announced that he was going on a diet.

I was still lying in bed, when he walked around the bedroom announcing how he was going to eat healthier, drink more water (and less Sangria), and exercise at least five days a week. As he went on and on about his plan, I just kind of rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. I thought, UGH...too early in the morning to worry about diet and exercise. Stop talking and go away.

He didn't.

Realizing that he was looking for some feedback and if I ever wanted him to STOP TALKING I had better respond or else he would continue to talk and talk and talk at that God forsaken hour of the freaking morning completely oblivious to the fact that I was having visions of smothering him with my pillow, I rolled out of bed and responded, "Good for you. Diet good. Exercise good. Yay for Paul."

Then, I shuffled my wonky ass into the bathroom. After peeing like a racehorse, I decided I'd better get on the scale. Because if Mr. Metabolism has gained weight after vacationing in Sin City, and I was his partner in Sangria, then I could only imagine what havoc has been wreaked on my thighs.

I got on the scale (the extremely accurate kind that they have at the doctor's office) and pushed the little black slider thingy to where it used to be pre-vacation.

Hmmm. The lever didn't move.

Again, I moved the DAMN slider thingy to the right a few pounds.

Again, the lever didn't move.

Son-of-a-bitch.

For the last freakin time, I moved that stupid slider thingy over...two more pounds. And finally, the lever bounced up. I started screaming things like, Holy crap! What the hell? This sucks big ones! For the love of all that is sacred and holy! I am such a lard ass!

Clearly startled by my outbursts, Hubby rushed into the bathroom. "WHAT? What's the matter?" He asked.

I responded, "Oh my freakin crap! Do you know how much I weigh? You are not even going to believe it! I'm serious! I weight XYZ pounds! That is the most I have ever weighed! Son.Of.A.Bitch."

And his response?

He smiled, lifted his right hand up, high-fived me, and said,
"Suh-nap!"

Yeah! SNAP....What the crap is that supposed to mean?

And he was beaming...like I'd just won an Olympic Gold Medal or something!

I don't know, dudes.

But I think I need to get Hubby to a doctor.

Unbeknownst to me, he apparently suffered a brain injury on the Big Shot last week....

Either that. Or, misery loves company.

I think I'll go with the brain injury theory.

That theory makes me want to stab him much less.

3 comments:

Jack Sh*t, Gettin' Fit said...

XYZ pounds? I need a scale that does letters, too. The number one isn't working out so well...

Diane, Fit to the Finish said...

It's definitely the "misery loves company" syndrome! You will lose the weight from vacation! Just get right back on track!

H.K. said...

At least your scale didn't say, "Wow" or "What the hell did you eat?"