‘Splain this one to me, Lucy.
Dearly Beloved returned from New York City late yesterday afternoon. He had called several times during his stay to tell me about the oh-so-outstanding meals he was eating. He arrived home tired, no doubt exhausted from all that chewing, and went to bed quite early last night. (Forget the late news; I’m not sure he even caught the early news.) In those few hours of consciousness between flight and dreamland, however, he ate like a high school fullback the first day after a family-imposed long Lenten fast. Mr. EatNoJunk first went for an apple, but soon moved on to ginger snaps, Diet Coke, ice cream bar, Wheat Thins, potato chips (gasp!) and the giant pumpkin raisin muffin I’d bought for a breakfast treat. And oh yes, dinner: shrimp and beef kabobs. Only bedtime stopped the rampage. Even the toothpaste tube looked suspiciously empty when I used it after he did last night.
What th’. . . . ?
This is not the first time this has happened. I can’t even remember all the times that we’ve lunched out and I’ve come home to nap off my cheeseburger and fries buzz while he headed for the pantry for microwave popcorn as an afterthought to his luncheon salad. If we’re driving to the beach and stop at the peach stand for a cone of their luscious peach ice cream, I get down to business and order a large. He will order a small and then eye mine longingly.
“Are you going to eat all that?”
It is definitely a trick question. If I say yes, I am acknowledging that my XL sweatpants are not the result of insurmountable gene mutation but my own lack of willpower. If I say no, my loving spouse will volunteer to dispose of it for me–down his own willing throat.
Is he trying to lead by example or does he really think that this time a green salad is going to fill him up? Is that somehow weirdly akin to my own thought process that if no one sees me eating the leftover Halloween Butterfingers, I am absorbing no calories?
My own logic leads me to conclude that when someone else is cooking it and there are no dishes to wash, no pots or pans to scrub. . . that is the time to pig out at the trough! Don’t eat out and then come home asking, “Have we got a little something to top off that meal?”
Granted, there might be a message for me in our eating out habits. . . perhaps that moderation might one day lead me to selections beyond that Irish brand jeans I currently require: TubO’Lard.
We have become like Mr. and Mrs. Jack Spratt. Maybe Mrs. Spratt eventually learned to eat half portions. But I’ll bet that even Jack ate a baked potato now and then.