The Promise

April 26, 2012

in After The Honeymoon, How to Diet in Reverse

The Big Man’s a bit old-fashioned. He prefers actual, hard-cover books; he prescribes Vaseline for anything that ails ya; and he believes a man’s word is his bond.

So when you say something to the Big Man? You had better mean it.

If you say you’re thinking of having fish for dinner, your only remaining choices are Tilapia or Salmon.

If you declare it might be a good idea to go to bed at 9pm instead of 10, he’ll be snoring by 9:01pm.

And if you stand up in front of your friends and family and declare your love is eternal, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health? You’d better believe he’ll be expecting to share a snot rag with you until you’re both just as wrinkled and snotty as it is.

It’s taken me a while to get used to this. Not the whole “eternal love and fidelity” part. That part I’m just fine with. So long as George Clooney doesn’t come a knocking. Or Patrick Stewart. Or Joshua Jackson. Or JTT…Or any guy old enough to be my father or with the first initial J, apparently…

Anyways. It’s the “if you declare you are never, ever buying hummus again, don’t expect him to bring it home the next time you put it on the grocery list” part that gets me.

If you were to take all of my words as my bonds? I would never, ever again enjoy:

  • Newly purchased books.
  • Ebooks.
  • Wine.
  • Hummus.
  • Vodka.
  • Chocolate.
  • Rum.
  • Cheese.
  • Gin.
  • Popcorn.
  • Whiskey.
  • Bubble Baths.
  • Pregnancy.

And certainly never all at once.

But I, occasionally, tend towards the dramatic. And the bloated. And I seem to lack a moticom of self control. Which means I tend to make a lot of declarations.

Like how I’m going to run.

Or exercise.

Or hide the Big Man’s Twizzler stash.

Or run.

And while the Big Man hardly ever hears me when I declare that its time to change someone’s diaper, or do the dishes, or become celibate, he, somehow, through the grace of gawd, ALWAYS hears me when I declare that I’m never, ever, ever eating another Reese’s Cup.

Which brings us to today.

When he came home early.

And found me.

On the couch.

Sitting next to my son’s Easter basket. With a Reese’s cup in one hand. And a Twizzler in the other.

At which point, we agreed, that perhaps there are some bonds? That are made to be broken.

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