More From the Science Fair

Yes, the Science Fair project that is my marriage is alive and well. The chart that my husband, The Center of the Universe (CoTU) keeps under the bed is constantly being updated. At least that is my belief.


I’m guessing the categories are “What Does It Take To Pi** Her Off”, “How Far Can I Push Her Before She Snaps”, and “What’s the Land Speed Record for Turning a Fun Experience into an Ugly One.”

So yesterday’s encounter, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which column this one goes into, was about our ongoing observations of how easily CoTU loses weight, compared with how difficult it is for me to lose weight.

Here’s a précis of the backstory:

He eats to the point of gluttony and does no exercise. If he forgets to have one of his many afternoon snacks one day, he can drop two or three pounds. I say this without any exaggeration.

I eat like a true minimalist, very little processed food, very small portions, working out 4-5 times a week, and it took me forever to lose a few pounds. For the past six weeks I have lost NO weight at all.

Now, sorry about the detour, back to present time. Well, yesterday.

CoTU steps off the scale and proudly announces that he’s dropped two more pounds. This after he ate a nice round of three full meals the day before, punctuated by plenty of snacks, and topped off with a nice apple turnover for dessert.

I groaned and remarked that even though I forsook the potato, bread and dessert at our previous night’s dinner, I was still stuck at my seemingly immutable weight.

He said, “Well, just don’t worry about it, Mama Cass.” I. Am. Not. Kidding. Like this is funny? I’m supposed to laugh when he calls me the name of the fattest person he can think of?

He tried to tell me he was just teasing me, but I was NOT happy. I’m sorry—did I just say I was not happy? How about I was livid? Yes. Livid. I said, “Why don’t you just call me fatso and get it over with?”

“Aw, come on, Chubby, I was just kidding.” Good thing my skillet was two rooms away or I would have beaned him with it.

He still thinks this is funny, and wants to call it ‘teasing’.

I say this opens up a new category on the Science Fair chart: “Name-Calling: Is Today a Good Day to Die?”

Weight and See

Everyone seems to be talking about losing weight these days. More than at any time other than the dreaded New Year’s resolutions, it seems to me as if we are all obsessing about our weight. We’re reading about it, we’re talking about it, and of course, we’re blogging about it.


Most of us, of course, want to lose weight; I don’t personally know anyone who’s actually trying to gain weight, although I imagine there are some people out there who are in that boat.

In this boat, the BIG boat, the boat where most of us are pretty sure that our asses make our pants look big, and not the other way around, we are cutting down our eating, and increasing our exercise. Well, for those who haven’t made it all the way to ‘exercise’, at least they are ramping up the activity level, or so they say.

Some of us just have five, or maybe ten pounds to lose, some of us have a whole lot more. Whatever the goal, it’s important to remember that we are all capable of getting there. Of course, I may be 90 by the time I lose the next nine pounds, given how long it’s taken me to lose the first six, but I intend to get there. It seems that my metabolism has deserted me. Since I’m using this boat metaphor, I guess I should say it bailed on me. Gone. Nothing. Nada, niente, zipperooni. But I’m still determined to get there. It’s a process, right? --like so many things.

Anyway, here’s what I have observed about weight:

[And I’m going to use bogus numbers, because like every single woman on the planet most American women, I’d rather get beaten up on the parking lot than tell you my real weight. So let’s pretend my ideal weight is 150, since I’m 5’8” tall in real life. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. According to my doctor, the Department of Motor Vehicles and the yardstick at Six Flags, I’m only 5’2”, but I’m pretty sure that’s a conspiracy to make me feel small. Anyhoo…]

So, with the foregoing in mind, say my ideal weight is 150. Then over the years, aging, imprudent food choices, aging, the lack of exercise and aging brought me to 160. Which I hated, because being 10 pounds over your ideal weight (especially if I really WERE 5’2”) makes your clothes not fit, makes you feel like a bit of a blimp (especially if I WERE 5’2”) and generally saps your energy and confidence. So, I hated seeing 160 on the scale every morning, and couldn’t wait to getting back to exercise and smarter eating and getting back to my best weight.

Then. The holidays. Most years I don’t really put on weight over the holidays, but this year I did. I let the hubster cajole me into joining him in sharing some foods and drinks that were virtually guaranteed to slap some extra avoirdupois on the places I least needed it. I’m not blaming him, mind you—I’m a free-thinking, independent woman who just weakened and indulged when she should not have. Shame on me.

So one day, instead of 160, I see 162. YIKES! I gotta get serious. Then 164. Oh no you dih-uhnt! And at last, 165. [Yeah, you know, not really 165, but 15 pounds above where I should ideally be.] So I’m totally shamed, wanna die, blah, blah, blah… Every new number is another knife blow to my heart.

But here’s the funny thing: Once I started losing weight, the numbers held different meaning. On the way up, 163 was like SHAME and humiliation, and omigod how did I ever let myself gain this weight? But on the way down, I see 163, and say, wow—163! All right! Good for me—I’m looking better already! You know, it’s only three pounds, and now I’ve lost six altogether, which is practically an Olsen twin, so give me some love, people! I’m going to make it happen. And guess what? I’m taking the hubby with me!