Your Weight is Fine. Now Go Chase This Frisbee!

Has anyone ever fallen victim to what I like to call ‘No honey, your weight is fine, just chase that Frisbee, will you?’ In a moment of clarity one can only have whilst standing on their bathroom scales at 6 am, it has dawned on me that I have indeed fallen for that very trick myself, that my husband has been sneakily swindling me for the last two weeks, under the guise of ‘good, active, family fun.’

Now, usually I prefer to live in sweet, chocolate covered, denial about my weight, but in the last couple of weeks my own personal aging process is becoming more and more apparent, (my husband turning into one of those bobble heads you get for your car anytime a good looking woman passes him doesn’t help) so I've embarked on yet another boring diet that seems as if I’m eating nothing but cardboard and air. Most of the time I bomb out with these diets. I have the self control of a toddler and portion control, to me, usually means only half the tub of ice cream with that Twighlight movie, but this time it seemed like I was getting there. I was actually losing a little weight! Surely I could celebrate with a box of shapes and a tub of French onion dip, couldn’t I? Oh wait. HALF a box of shapes and a tub of LIGHT dip (portion control woman, portion control). So anyway, I'm standing on the scale and my husband rolls past, shirt off, not an inch of ‘extra padding’ on him, smirks at me and says, "I knew all that running round the oval would help. I got you exercising and you didn’t even know it.” Wait. What??! The last two weeks flashed back through my mind. Every afternoon and each weekend, hubby has been suggesting that the kids and I head down the local oval - footballs, soccer balls and Frisbees in tow. “What a great idea! What a sweet man to want to spend time with his family like this.” Off I trotted, happily frolicking with the kids around the park, leaping the dog turds with the light footed grace of a ballet dancer (seriously people, pooper scooper already) enjoying the sunshine and praising my husband for my children’s exceptional sporting skills, because any natural talent they inherited for anything sporting or slightly physical, surely came from their father. I was puffing and blowing like a thoroughbred on cup day, you know, from all the turd leaping, and was heading off for a ‘sit down’ when hubby ever so sweetly tossed a Frisbee in my direction. And so began our afternoon ritual of Frisbee. Or ‘lets see how much he can get me running before I go down gasping like a drowning rat’ (ok, so i’m not the fittest of women).

I ran and ran and ran chasing that damn Frisbee (how can this man who once played elite, national level sport have such s**t aim???!!). Each time it would go sailing past my outstretched arms and I would run. Back and forth like this for days. It got to the point where I even started instructing dear husband how to throw said Frisbee correctly, flicking ones wrist ‘just so’, claiming my impending heart failure was surely a good reason to learn to throw properly. To no avail. My althetic, fit, and highly coordinated husband continued to drastically fail at a basic skill that our 3 year old had mastered by then. This man defends our country, but cannot throw a damn Frisbee?? Wrong! But how dumb was I not to pick up on it? And I continued to barely keep from blacking out each afternoon. Two weeks of this passed and as I stepped on the scales, all I could attribute my weight loss to was my absolutely awesome dieting skills. Apparently I was wrong. WHAT. AN. A***HOLE! I felt like smacking him right in his smirking face. Like, really flogging him. I really did. But it worked, right? God I hate it when he does something that really pisses me off, and it works. Never tell a man they are right though ... never. Especially your husband. You will never live it down. So that afternoon at the park once more with my sweetheart, I smiled sweetly, said ‘catch honey’ and threw that damn Frisbee as hard as I could right into his grinning face. That’ll learn him. So for all you ladies out there - if your husband or partner ever claims athletic incompetence, which has been now proven to be a cunning scam, remember this story, walk away, find yourself some wine and some chocolate and screw the diet.