Dog Fight

Almost every time I eat, a little bit of food ends up on my shirt just above my belly, it used to fall all the way to my lap. My expensive mattress that was supposed to last ten years, has a noticeable sag on my side while over on skinny-ass Mark's side it's still as firm as the day we bought it. I can't tie my shoes without unbuckling my belt, that is unless my belt is already unbuckled because it is just more comfortable that way. When I walk, my thighs rub together and my ass cheeks chafe. I find I go through more containers of baby powder than a woman with octuplets. I probably wouldn't have so many problems with my feet if they weren't trying to support thirty three percent more weight than they did twelve years ago.

And the war against fat goes on. I know all you skinny bastards are saying, "Just don't eat so much", but you have never lived with Mark. Last night, for dinner, we had a delicious salad of greens, citrus, and goat cheese, with a light vinaigrette. The main course was Swedish meat balls on egg noodles. I know that doesn't sound too bad, but it was followed by Mark's homemade strawberry shortcake smothered in whipped-cream, and not the kind that comes in a can or tub, but real cream, whipped up with sugar. I challenge anybody to resist that dessert.

Every day I start out with good intentions, then around five in the evening Mark starts cooking, and Chandler and I find ourselves hanging around the kitchen drooling, and hoping for a morsel of food to come our way. I know I've lost all hope when I find myself diving for the same piece of meat that Mark has thrown to the dog. This morning I will try again, and I hope that I find the will power to eat with moderation today. That would please Chandler, he hates the competition.