Darling P,
Seems I have a new dilemma which I’m having a tough time sorting without your input. I know that your mother is visiting from the homeland and requires your rapt attention, especially at tea time when the place settings must be just so, but if you can spare a moment, I would most appreciate it.
Seems hubby returned from his time in the bush–after claiming his mental health break was non-negotiable–about ten pounds heavier. Now generally, I put the chubby hubby phenomena into just one category: lack of good wifely oversight and, well, just plain lack of good sex. But really, dear P, he was gone only a week and, although I do hope he didn’t have much good sex, it’s hard to believe I could have failed him in my wifely capacity as well.
Now, I know I risk isolation from any number of good women who might think they have little to do with their husband’s girth. But really, who else is there to blame? If you can’t control what your spouse puts in his mouth, what is left of our duty on this earth?
I have a dear friend who claims the Japanese have a terrific system for staying slim. It involves indulging oneself at each meal only to the 80% level. This means one should always feel about 20% unsatisfied, at least three times each day. I shared this theory with hubby. Eldest daughter quickly chimed in that she was certain dear friend’s husband did not subscribe to his wife’s theory as he was, alas, not as thin as she. Daughter also claimed she adored him and wouldn’t want him any other way. Of course, she’s not married to the man, now is she?
I guess, dear P, what I need is affirmation that it isn’t my fault and, more importantly, that I can continue to control every other overflow in the universe, if not those threatening hubby’s pants’ button as we speak. I suppose this could all be an attempt to stave off what I see as my own inevitable decline, as I experienced the full horror of a three way mirror just this morning. It would be an understatement to say I am not the girl I was at twenty. The shame, I suppose, is that I am quite happy, cerebrally speaking, not to be. But oh how the flesh tends not to hear my exhortations to obey!
In sum, as you seem inaccessible to me right now, I must simply conclude that it’s OK to favor the pooch hubby is sharing with me these days. Although it does make other appendages seem smaller in comparison, it’s actually a relief to know that the male species faces, and fails at, at the same eternal struggle. That said, I’m taking the whipped cream off his ice cream sundae as I write this. Only wish eldest daughter would leave the room so I could put it where I really want it without seeming, well, frankly, not very British at all. Give best to mum and the Queen. And do tell her we didn’t mean to offend with our offerings of dry biscuits without the tea. We tend to do that in the Midwest. But we never forget the whipped cream.
C.
