Questions about weight seem to really scare husbands. I’m not a scale-watcher, but this year I have gained ten pounds that I’d like to lose.
I stopped eating sugar. I’ve also finally found the energy to work out regularly, which is nice. I do it for my mind, but it would be lovely if it also affected my body.
Not all my clothes fit again, but some do. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I felt like I’d possibly lost a couple pounds.
“Claus,” I said, “do you think I’ve lost weight since I started going to the gym again?”
He thinks he’s hiding it, but he always gets this stunned look on his face when I broach the topic of my appearance.
He’s totally gotten in trouble before, that’s why. This is just one example:
Before our first wedding anniversary, when I cared enough to buy a new dress for dinner, I modeled it for him.
I asked him if he liked it. “It’s great!” he told me. “You know what would make it better? If you got one of those push up bras.”
“I’m wearing one,” I informed him, which was the last sentence he got from me for the rest of the week. (Funny how things change; at this point in time, he might be rather happy about that.)
Once burnt – make that multiple times burnt, now shy.
Back to today. He says, “Yeah!”
“You can tell?” I asked.
“Sure!” he responded.
“Where do you think I lost weight?” I wondered.
Eyebrows go up. “Right… there…” he said, and wagged his finger in a circle vaguely around my entire body. There are forced confessions more compelling than that.
“That’s not very specific,” I laughed.
“Why do you notice these things?” he complained.
Fine. Maybe nothing has changed yet. Next time, I’ll just ask the scale.