This weekend I was getting a personal sized Weight Watcher’s Chocolate Mint Ice Cream out of the freezer thinking it’s 9:30 p.m but my stomach is killing me and mint really helps me. It’s Weight Watcher’s and I want it damn it. I am going to be 41 years old and if I want ice cream at 9:30 p.m. I am going to eat it.
I sit down to enjoy the very small serving of mint ice cream for my belly when a voice pierces the darkend room with the filtered blue streaks of light coming from the TV; “is that ice cream?”
It is my husband the Spartan who has been working on his body for the the past 4-5 months.
“Yup, it is” I say with a flip of my spoon.
“You should be upset with yourself” he says. “It’s 9:30!” he adds.
“Ah huh” I mutter.
FYI to anyone who thinks this was a loving gesture from a caring husband – there are ways to discuss calories and eating habits this was not one of them.
End of conversation.
The annoying part of this is that I have been here before. I had a boyfriend who used to discuss what I ate and talk about how disgusting I was that I started throwing up so that I wouldn’t be “so fat and disgusting that I can’t even get hard over you.” (btw…exact quote word for word. I won’t forget it until the day I die). I was bulemic for 5 years.
I was a size 5 then and I am a size 10/12 now (2-3 sizes bigger and 2 kids later), I refuse to be told what, when and how much I can eat unless I solicite such information.
So will end this post with a shake of my head, a flip of my spoon and a big fat Rachel Ray tribute, Yum-Oh!