Herding Cats: A Scene From Our Bedroom

When we first started dating, my husband possessed what you might call wiry in physique. Seriously, the man wore pants with like a 29 inch waist. It was pathetic, if you ask me because he eats like a hog and never had to worry about the existence of fat rolls or, say, the number of calories consumed vs. exercise output, etc. So naturally, I've always been the fatter one in our relationship and I'm completely comfortable in that role. After my surgery, one might say we are more comparable in size. And since T is approaching 40, his formerly super-speedy metabolism is slowing down, and since I can have a tendency towards spitefulness, I can't help but take some small amount of satisfaction in that. Anyway, there has been a slight shift of power in this area of our relationship. We are continuing to find equilibrium here, sometimes with humorous results, sometimes with hurt feelings, sometimes with both.

And so here is a sampling of dialogue that recently occurred in our bedroom:


T & I, in our bedroom, changing into our pajamas.

T: (showing me his stomach in profile) "I'm getting fat. Look at these pants. I'm as big around as I am tall. "

Me: "Let's go on a diet! No really, we need to eat more fruits and vegetables! More whole foods! Don't you think? Huh? Huh?"

T: "Mehhhhhhh . . . "

Me: "Well, I think we should. If you get any fatter, you might grow man bosoms. That wouldn't be good."

T: (defensive now) "So, what are you saying? You think I'm turning into a titty farm here?"

Me: "That's not what I said at all. We're being proactive to try to prevent the titty farm. You know, an ounce of prevention being better than a double-D cup of cure and all . . . "

N: (just now zooming in from downstairs to interrupt our conversation, at full speed and top volume) "WOOHOO! A Kitty Farm! A Kitty Farm! We're gonna have a Kitty Farm! Yay for Kitty Farm! WOOHOO!"

T: (increasingly defensive, as man bosoms is a deep-seated fear he has) "N, that's not appropriate, stop it. Stop it right now."

Me: (have now relocated bathroom, the better to choke back laughter) "Hhhwwwrrrrkkkkkk . . . "

N: (whispering under breath, to a congo rhythm in his head) "Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER, Daddy is a farMER."

Me: (now collapsed in bathroom, totally paralyzed by hysteria yet still managing some degree of fear WRT dust bunnies congregated on tile floor.)

These are the days, man, these are the days.