My lost weight had crept back, as it often does. So it was time to sign up again, pay my monthly dues and waddle into the weekly meetings.
I went to my first meeting, version 2.0, and weighed in. I cringed as I saw my weight in my record book. How did it get to this, I wondered? I used to weigh far less. Well, OK, that was two years ago. Fat returns when you aren’t paying attention.
With a straight face, my Love God then asked the forbidden question: “So what do you weigh?”— as if that were a normal marital question, like “Have you seen my sunglasses, dear?”
Did I hear that man correctly? Has he learned nothing after 30 years with me and 14 with his first wife? If he insisted on asking a dumb question, I’d give him a dumb answer.
“I weigh 114 pounds,” I replied. That ought to stop him in his tracks. Let him prove I’m wrong.
“114 — really?” he said, eyebrows raised. “That’s very interesting.”
I’d lied, and we both knew it. Game on.
I wanted to dress as lightly as possible for my second weigh-in a week later, so I took my kitchen food scales into the bathroom to weigh various bras and panties. As I was leaving the bathroom, I was startled to meet my Love God in the doorway. I was like a deer caught in the headlights.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” he asked.
I braved the truth.
“I was weighing my underwear to see which pieces weighed the least.”
He rolled his eyes, trying to ignore this Lucy moment.
When I arrived home from the meeting, my Love God was waiting for me. “So how did the meeting go?” he asked. In Honey-speak that meant, “Did you lose any weight?”
“The meeting went well — I was down two and a half pounds.”
“So what do you weigh now?”
Jeepers, did he think I was a mathematician? Lying is so complicated. I had to quickly recalculate my fake weight, subtracting 2.5 from 114, with him staring at me. My weigh-in record book told the truth, but this conversation was not about the truth.
Honey asks every week what my new weight is. I recalibrate my fake weight to correspond with my true weight loss. Apparently, I now weigh 87 pounds, with a final weight goal of 64 pounds.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave…
— Diane Pascoe is the author of the newly published collection of hilarious essays, Life Isn’t Perfect, But My Lipstick Is. Her funny memoir “collects the mental musings of a wife, mother and (sometimes) gracefully aging woman.” She lives in North Carolina with her husband, Eric (also known in these stories as “Honey” and “Love God”) and their two dogs.