So here is the unfortunate truth:
My marriage is troubled and I’m not so sure we’ll be able to move past it.
(People, please. Check out the byline. Do we really think something sordid is about to follow?)
Anyway, there is every indication that my husband is going through a mid-life crisis and he’s taking it out on me.
Shame on me for not seeing the warning signs.
It started innocently enough with his carbohydrate crackdown. I paid no mind. He’s jumped on fad diet crazes in the past and I was able to support him. I understood my role in this: Buy more bacon for a few weeks, avoid the grotesque noshing of pickles throughout the day and try not to pay attention to the ridiculous increase in my grocery bill, thanks to all the gotta-have fresh produce… I’d traveled this road before.
But then he started running. “I’m gonna try and run the town road race this year,” he said. And he did.
But he didn’t stop. He kept running and running and running (Run, Forest, Runnnnn!) and the pounds started melting off. Thirty five pounds came off his frame and for the first time, when we’d go out, he was getting more compliments on his body than I was getting on my earrings. (What the….?)
I was happy for him. Really. Who wouldn’t be? He became incredibly fit, he was taken off all his cholesterol medicine and – the understated bonus -- there was always more pizza for me. Winning!
So yes, things were looking up. And my usual cynicism got buried beneath all of the positive energy.
Again, shame on me.
I should have known this Dr. Oz facade was merely laying stepping stones to a dark and dangerous place because what he did next was unthinkable.
After twenty-one years of marriage (come on Tina, you can do this….stay strong) he actually put me … in … a minivan.
And not just any minivan. A crappy minivan. Hold up -- not just a crappy minivan. A really, really, smelly minivan. I am a mother of four. I KNOW smelly cars. This one is rank.
It is complete and utter devastation.
Never have I ever cared about cars. I used to shrug all the time. Didn’t care about make or model or mileage. Couldn’t tell you what my best friends drive, don’t know the difference between most of them and really (really) just don’t care. All I ever said was (and shall we pay close attention here?) so long as it’s not a minivan, I don’t care WHAT I drive. I’ve been low maintenance my entire life: I keep the inside of my ride cleaner than most people, play really excellent music in it, and can – and do – hit the gas pedal in heels. Often.
So, I ask, if my husband has said for almost a quarter of a century “I will not eat artichokes” …
… are we all together on this one?
So now here I am, driving around in a minivan with a skinny husband.
It’s just so wrong on so many levels I don’t even know where to start.
Kinda makes a gal start to question.
Kinda makes a wife start to wonder.
Does he feel threatened by my obvious vitality and youthful demeanor?
Is his insistence on finding the “deal of the century” really just a covert attempt to put Baby in the corner?
Who knows. All I can say is my suspicions are heightened and I am onto him.
I have decided to turn the tables on him -- and embrace my ugly loser cruiser.
I’ve stockpiled air fresheners, swiped my 13-year-old’s cheap aviator sunglasses to achieve an optimal cool-driver look and have (well, naturally) purchased some new heels. Nothing says badass mom like exiting a minivan in Kardashianesque sandals. So there.
And now I WILL find the “101 Amazing Artichoke Recipies” book that surely MUST be out there somewhere.
Because this fight is far from over.
Skinny Boy’s goin’ down……
So now ….if you’ve chuckled at any of the above you must now …
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This endeavor will take a very long time …
… trust me.