Me: Someone is sounding bitter (still resenting that he was right about my last post. BTW Patrice, thank you for the article The Bitch is Back).
Tony (smiling): I guess I should take my menopause pill. How much longer do we have to ride before we have earned enough points for a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich?
Clearly, the folks at Weight Watchers who came up with the point system must have started their careers as mothers or teachers.
“I’m new, too.”
I instantly liked Claudette, a large, aging June Cleaver. I like her eyebrows – they are painted on in such a way that she looks interested and happy at the same time.
She continues, “My husband likes to fix a big sandwich or snack around 10:00 p.m. every night. He’s always offering me food because he thinks that is the polite thing to do. I don’t know how to handle the situation. I like to stay up for late night TV . . . the food smells so good . . . it’s so tempting. . . .”
The room erupts with chatter.
Whoa! It’s a good thing Mr. Claudette was not within reach! Advice bounced from chair to chair, off the product wall, and through the weigh-in stations . . . finally ending in a declaration from Jean, “SABATOGE!”
I started feeling sorry for Mr. Claudette. I imagined his late night sandwich ending up splattered on the kitchen wall, Claudette in her bathrobe, eyebrowless, with her hands on her hips, screaming at him not to offer her any more GD food. This could only end up with Mr. Claudette living under a bridge.*
I decide to say something. My goal was to keep quiet. That is always my goal. I try to live by the WAIT policy when I am at meetings (Why Am I Talking?). I also have this policy when visiting blogs; obviously I am as successful at WAIT as I am at weight.
I raise my hand. The leader glances at my name tag.
“Julie, what do you have to say on the subject?” He must somehow know I am the famous Worrywart who guides people around the globe with my blog on weight, sex (?), and marriage because he hushes the crowd. Shhh, everybody listen. Now I have the floor (blurting out is so much less intimidating).
“Well, it’s like any situation in life. You can only control yourself. Instead of focusing on how you want your husband to change, focus on what you can do to change your behavior so his actions do not tempt you.”
Foreheads point in my direction; a medley of eyebrows raise, “HELLO, lady, this is not a blog, she can’t just click her husband, his sandwich, and her hunger away.”
Nonetheless, I leave satisfied with my comment especially since I managed to get the words in the right order, and I’m pretty sure my parallel structure was correct which I often have a hard time with (and I know I spelled each word correctly).
That night in bed (the closest this blog has ever come to talking about sex), I started in on my usual set of worries. What if Kip and Joanie get in a car accident between LAX and Santa Barbara? What if Ralphie gets hit by a car walking home from Geoff’s party? What if Kelly . . . well we all know Kelly is watching a Seinfeld rerun and working on a puzzle, so no worries there.
Then, my very own voice came into my head and said, “You can only control yourself, go to sleep.” And miraculously I did.
The next evening, after a WHOLE day of being on our new plan for 2012 (our plan is to not eat out so we can lose weight and save money for a trip to Europe and Asia – we eat out A LOT), Tony and I convince each other that we could have a light meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant for the same number of points we were going to use eating leftover roast beef.
We calculate all of the points: two glasses of white wine = 6 points, 12 chips = 4 points, salad with no dressing = 0 points, tostada w/o meat and no shell . . . you get the idea. . . . Tony was excited because he walked the dog earlier and earned a point (he confessed during our ride, he never really understood what I was doing with the kid’s point charts – now he gets it. Walk the dog – eat a chip).
We sit down and are greeted by the head waiter, Tommy, who we have come to know over the last few months. We exchange some friendly words.
We begin counting our chips out . . . . Tommy brings out a platter of deep-fried shrimp that we did not order and places it ceremoniously on our table.
“For you,” he says then gestures with his hands as if to say, “a gift from me.”
What can we do? Mr. Claudette comes to mind.
Slowly I begin eating my words.
* Please visit 30 Years of Growing Pains: Last Night You Saved My Life – Or At Least My Sanity for a fun post about how people end up living under bridges.
My camera is a little too close to this guy.