Back in April my family decided to make some big lifestyle changes. We rose before the crack of dawn to work out, and we started eating healthier. As expected, those actions are definitely paying off. My step kids are both incredibly strong, my husband is losing his gut and my clothes are all looser. Although I did expect us to start looking and feeling better, I didn’t expect my husband to start exhibiting some other “interesting” behavior. Two recent examples come to mind.
The first thing you need to know is that I used drink one or two Mountain Dews just about every day. It was a horrible habit I had tried to break for years. Finally, my husband and I did a 10-day cleanse where we could only drink water (and these other drinks which basically looked like sludge). I stopped the habit right then and there, and I haven’t had a Mountain Dew since; that was about three months ago.
Unfortunately, my husband treats my former soda addiction as seriously as Spencer Pratt treats his douchiness. I’m surprised he hasn’t started introducing himself as my sponsor.
Case in point: We were recently on our way back from an overnight in Chicago. I was in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat, which is usually what happens on any car trip over one hour. In all fairness, I wanted to stay awake and keep him company as he drove the last hour home, so when he pulled into McDonald’s I asked for a Coke; straight up, no diet.
You’d have thought I had just asked him if I could go to a party at Bobbi Brown’s house with Andy Dick.
“No, I’m not giving you that,” he tells me with a stern face.
“What, you think that if I drink one Coke I’ll start drinking tiger’s blood and then go out looking for a couple naïve twenty-year-old muses?” I ask, incredulously. Now I know how Lindsay Lohan feels when she just wants one measly gin and tonic at the club. Poor Linds.
Five long minutes pass, and he returns to the car.
(Big sigh) “Okay, here it is, but it’s mostly ice.”
Miraculously, I did not relapse after that one iced-down Coke, and my Mountain Dew-less streak is still alive.
The other episode of crazy happened after a recent grocery shopping trip. My husband is obsessed with keeping our workout clothes ultra fresh and lovely-smelling (and telling us how wonderful he is for doing this), so he bought a pre-wash spray specifically for smelly, sweaty workout clothes. As we were putting groceries away, he grabs the bottle out of the bag and starts surveying it. There’s a picture of a jogging woman in a sports bra on the front of the bottle. Apparently that did not sit so well with him.
“They shouldn’t have this lady on the bottle,” he huffs. “There should be a picture of me spraying down the crotches of this family’s workout clothes.”
“Yes, why don’t you pass that along to Procter & Gamble’s marketing department? I’m sure they are kicking themselves for not thinking of that,” I tell him.
Who knows what will happen if he ever gives up beer.