My husband and I have issues.
Over the past few months, we have been working super hard to drop our bear blubber. Because 1) we are simply too fat and 2) we are not actually bears who need to stockpile on a few layers of fat to make it through hibernation season. Hell, the fact is, all this extra cushion does NOT keep me any warmer in winter, no matter how much I try to use that as justification for the weight of a small child being attached to my ass. It’s kinda why it’s important to put polar bears on the endangered species list. How they do that, stay warm AND not develop diabetes is AMAZING — we need to study that. But that’s a different topic.
So to the gym we go. Or, as we call it, the exercise place. Because Jim is Jim, as opposed to gym, and my Jim-gym jokes get very tiring for him, and he began calling it “the exercise place” and he was relentless and I finally gave in. We lift three times a week, we do cardio at least four times a week. Sometimes we play racquetball and dammit is that funny. For real. Drop by the gym with your video camera and Bob Saget will be handing you a $10,000 check before you know it, it’s that entertaining. I once drilled the man right in the ear hole, which was almost as funny as the time I nailed myself in the face.
The result of this has been good. We generally watch what we eat, and we’re not over exercising, so the weight is coming off slowly but surely. Since Christmas, we have both dropped something in the area of 20 pounds. Yeeeee-hoooo! That is nice to see when you strip down completely naked because surely your clothes weight double-digits and get on the scale.
But we all have our guilty pleasures. We all need our guilty pleasures. And for me and Mr. Wonderful, ours comes in liquid form:
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Time to make the donuts.
I use this image because Homer Simpson truly expresses how the fatty within emerges when Jim and I get our hands on a big, fat, delicious cup o’ Dunkin. Large. 1 cream. 2 Splenda. Oh. My. God.
Tonight, I went to the gym for cardio. We usually go together and drop the kids off at the daycare, but we couldn’t do that tonight because George only has one pair of shoes, and they were in the sink. Don’t ask. So I went first, ran for half an hour, then Jim went and did the death machine stair climber. Then, before returning home in time for the Blackhawks game, he stopped at Dunkin. He walked in the door with a cup in each hand and a big old smile on his face, and I kid you not I fell in love with him all over again! Seriously. Forget the selfless way he loves even the crappiest parts of me, or how he has to be reminded that he was not there when Hank was born because he has simply forgotten that he’s not the child’s biological father, or that he is patient even when I fill up his TiVo memory with episodes of “The Ghost Whisperer,” or that he managed to deliver the sweetest and most awkward marriage proposal ever in my parent’s driveway. It’s the Dunkin Donuts coffee in his hands. This is why he is awesome.
It is truly the strangest thing ever. Tonight I referred to it as our “36-year-old beer,” because apparently we have reached an age where we do NOT grab a beer first thing when getting set to watch the big game. Of course — there IS beer in the fridge, and I’m sure we’ll both down one soon. It’s not like we’ve turned our backs on frothy-brewed deliciousness. But for whatever reason, there is a new liquid we cannot live without. And its name is Dunkin Donuts coffee.
My cup is currently empty. My coffee is in my belly. I might have to go grab my shoes and see if I can make HIM fall in love with ME all over again.