Confession Before the Fact

I think I may be trying to kill my husband...or at the very least, I may have stopped caring if he drops dead.

I used to take such care with his meals, trying to balance the foods he loves (fried, fatty, buttery, and greasy are his four food groups, with bonus groups of meat, sugary and/ cheesy to round off the list) with healthy things, fruits and vegetables, whole grains, fish, and the like. I made sure every morning that he took a multi-vitamin and tried to stem the tide of Coca-Cola products flowing through our home. I begged, wheedled, cajoled, and nagged him to change his diet, and joined the gym with him, promising to go whenever he did to help cheer him on while I worked out, too.

When he said he wanted to diet, I portioned out foods and reminded him of his resolution when he wanted seconds, thirds, to finish off the leftovers, didn't want to eat vegetables or salads, didn't want to walk with me or go work out. I packed his lunches for work...and he'd bring them home uneaten because "...the guys all wanted to go out for lunch..." and he went to some burger joint where he had a double with cheese, bacon, and mushrooms...but there was lettuce on the plate, so it was healthy. Not that he ate the lettuce, mind, but it was there... I busted my ass (That's why it's so big - it's not fat, it's still swollen. Yeah.) to help him, where "help" meant "do everything but actually chew the food".

That was then.

Now?

Now I don't even tell him when I'm going to the gym, because he will ask me to let him sleep a little more, a little more, a little more, until he's slept the day away or has to go to work. Also, he turned it into a competition - everything I did, he had to top, even though by doing less I benefited more.

Now, I put extra mayonnaise on his sandwiches...even when he doesn't ask for it.

I fry his eggs in bacon fat, don't blink when he asks for four or five strips of bacon, put cheese on his eggs and extra butter on his toast.

I put cheese on everything, and when I make vegetables or salad with a meal, I don't offer him any.

I quit buying vitamins.

When he orders garlic cheese bread, a Philly Cheese Steak pizza without the only ingredient that could pass for healthy (green peppers) and two two-litre bottles of coke on pizza night (the one night a week I am not home to cook dinner), I don't even blink, nor do I say anything when he eats the whole order of cheese bread and almost the entire pizza and drinks at least one two-litre by himself.

I don't buy healthy-ish frozen meals or plan meals for when I am out of town, because I know I will come back and find the food uneaten - he went to the drive-through instead, because gods forbid he should cook for himself. He will barely cut up an apple for our son, and that's one reason I don't like to go out of town, even when I really need a day or two to decompress...I am afraid of what he'll feed the kid!

He looks ninety months pregnant.

His back hurts, his feet hurt, he can't breath properly, and none of his clothing fits, and he can barely walk. He can't bend over and touch his toes, and he can't tie his shoes without a huge effort. His heart should have exploded by now. What am I doing wrong? <---that's a joke. Laugh, dammit! Please?

I actually got a mite peeved when he said he wanted to go to the gym again...I thought all my plans were being foiled. And then I realized what I had just thought. Oh, dear.

Homicide by food. Uh-oh.

I know, I know...if something should happen, I'll feel just awful. Maybe. No, no, probably I will... I'm pretty sure...and with my luck, a heart attack or stroke won't kill him, it'll just make him all gimpy and even more needy...or scare him healthy and he'll lose a hundred pounds in a month and live to be ninety, which will just piss me off so I'll have to be more proactive and smother him with a pillow. Dang.

Oh, uh...kidding!

He's insured, right? Maybe I should check on that...