He predictably said (because he’s a bad ass), “I don’t do resolutions.”
I said (defensively), “Me neither.”
My husband said, “It’s about taking stock and it be silly to take stock on March 21st or July 15th – this is a nice point on the timeline to take stock.”
And it is about taking stock and to use a business term looking at gaps and enforcing some gap closing measures. I really don’t do resolutions. I used to but I realized that I sucked at following up. But this year…this year is going to be different. I’m sure of it.
Have you seen a list of resolutions? They usually are centered around health (read as lose weight, work out, eat better, sleep longer blah blah). No wonder gym memberships go up around the first two weeks of January. People have been gorging during the holidays and everyone checks the mental gym box while they put away another piece of pie.
I’m not going to deny it. I have been on the “I must lose weight” band wagon. I did the gym membership and finally, a few years ago decided to invest in workout equipment at home to reduce the barrier of resistance. My treadmill has not become a place to hang clothes and is used nearly every day by both my husband and I because we own Nike Fuelbands and our bracelets get angry with us if we don’t move enough.
Do I look fat in this?
I will confess that I go on about my weight…a lot. My husband has just about had it. I don’t even know where the insecurity comes from. But it’s like there is an albatross around my waist.
My husband doesn’t get it.
“You’re not fat. Why is this so important to you?” he asks.
“I worry that if I don’t think I’m fat and I’m actually fat then I’m walking around thinking I’m not and everyone is looking at me thinking I am,” I say.
My husband looks on open-mouthed and snaps his mouth shut; and then very carefully says, “When the fuck did you start caring about what people thought?”
“I just don’t want to be that weirdo on American Idol who thinks he can sing and actually really, really can’t,” I say.
“You have a great body. You should love your body,” he says.
“Really? You don’t think I’m fat? I have this HUGE belly and…”
At this point, my husband opens a bottle of wine.
While we were waiting for our flight in Newark airport I was reading Tina Fey’s self help book Bossypants (you thought it was entertainment and I thought it was self help; it happens). The chapter about body image was an eye opener. It all fell into place. I read an excerpt out to my husband and I said, “I’m going to do this more for you than for me. I will not ask you if I look fat in something. Ever.”
My husband said, looking up at the ceiling, “Thank you, God.”
But even as I said it I was thinking, but shoudn’t I check all the same? What if I have an important meeting and I have rolls and rolls of belly fat hanging visibly about me because I wore the dress that I think looks great but actually makes me look fat? And if I don’t ask, I will never know.
“No,” my husband said, reading my mind. “You can never ask.”
“Maybe for an important…”
“No, never. Even if you get fat, like huge, like XXXXXL huge, you can’t ask,” he said.
“You think I’m going to get XXXXXL huge? It’s the wine, isn’t it?”
My husband abruptly left then to buy something at Hudson, probably ear plugs. But I managed to quell the panic and decided to stick to my resolution. So yeah, I’m not going to ask or think the question, “Do I look fat in this?”
In 2014, I will be 40 and then I can move onto the love your curves nonsense….