I believe that if a person gets sick then he or she should lose weight accordingly. For example, if one gets a cold, then one loses two pounds. If one gets the flu, then one loses five to eight pounds, depending on the level of diarrhea involved. If one has a sinus infection that lingers on for two weeks and then turns into freaking pneumonia that lasts another two weeks and life as one knows it grinds to a big, soppy, Kleenex filled, NyQuil swilling, hacking, coughing, choking blur of existence in which one has to visit the doctor three times and take four different prescriptions and one has to listen to her husband whine about non-appreciation while one is running a 102 degree fever, and then one loses all sense of taste and smell for the duration, then one should lose a minimum of TWENTY pounds. (One should also look into the definition of run on sentences, but what the hell?)
Hey, it's an acceptable trade-off. I sacrifice stuff-my fat sacrifices itself.
But did that happen? Of course, the gods of weight loss sneered at my sickness and said, "Four pounds, sucker." That's all. Then they added with a sardonic laugh, "And when you get better you'll gain it back overnight because we're feeling ironic."
That's irony. But I am feeling better.
Monday, June 18, 2007
- He supports me when I’m sick.
- He always says, ‘I love you,’ several times a day.
- He asks how my day was.
- He says I’m not fat even though I am.
- He takes care of the baby even when I don’t ask.
- He knows when to get take out food because I’m tired.
- He’s never mean, or cruel, or vicious to me.
- He goes to get a Frosty when I ask.
- I enjoy his company even after twenty-four years together.
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