Monday, September 28, 2015
“Yes! Lost another half a pound,” I say triumphantly as I step off the scales.
“Good for you,” my wife replies. The way she mumbles sounds like she’s chewing on something. I turn around and sure enough, there’s a candy bar wrapper lying by the couch.
“Oh, come on, Sandra, you’re not even trying!” I moan, and she just shrugs.
“We’re supposed to do this together,” I continue, incensed at the fact that apparently it’s only me who is sticking to our New Year’s resolutions, even though it was her idea in the first place. Not that I wasn’t getting a bit overweight myself, but Sandra had gained so much weight recently that a lot of her clothes wouldn’t fit her any more. She decided that she’d drop the accumulated pounds, and to make sure she wouldn’t back out, she talked me into going along with her dieting plan. I hated it at first, but once I started losing weight myself, I stopped complaining. Her own progress, on the other hand, was not as fast.
I go to the bedroom and come back carrying one of her favorite dresses.
“Don’t you want to wear it ever again?” I say, stretching out my hand with the hanger in front of the couch.
“Damnit, Mike, stop teasing me,” Sandra says, unwrapping another candy bar, “It’s not that easy.”
“Yes it is!” I say, “Just don’t eat that second chocolate.”
“I’ve had a rough day,” she pouts, but doesn’t bite the candy bar just yet.
“So what,” I say.
For a moment, we look each other in the eyes, then she lifts the candy bar to her mouth.
“Wait,” I say, and she puts it down again.
“Tell you what,” I say, “If you’re not going to be serious about losing weight, I’ll wear it.”
“What?” she says.
“You heard me,” I repeat, “If you don’t make an effort to fit in your clothes again, then I’ll start wearing them.”
“They won’t fit you, either,” she scoffs.
“Maybe not now,” I say, “But I’m not done losing weight yet. And as soon as I can fit into something of yours, I’ll wear it until you do, too.”
“Where are you going to wear it to?” she asks.
“Home,” I say, dumbfounded, “I’m not going to wear your clothes in public, come on.”
“Whatever,” she says dismissively, but she doesn’t pick up the candy bar again.
“I can’t zip up this one, either,” Sandra says as she puts her pale pink silk dress back on the hanger. She’s about to hang it back in the closet, when she changes her mind.
“Why don’t you put it on?” she says, handing me the dress, “It’s always looked good on you, and it’s been a while since you last wore it.”
“Don’t you think you’re having a bit too much fun with this?” I ask bitterly, but I still obediently turn my back towards her.
“Well, forgive me if I don’t find eating blanched vegetables exciting enough,” she says as she unzips me, and I step out of the full skirted sundress I’ve been wearing.
“This dieting business is dull as shit, honey, and if there’s a way to spice it up, I’ll do it,” she says as I step into the new dress. I pull it up until I can put my hand in its sleeves. I try to zip it up by myself, but I can’t, so I turn my back towards Sandra again.
“Are you sure you want to wear it over black?” she asks instead of helping me with the zipper.
“Oh, give me a break,” I sigh.
“I’ll give you a break when you deserve it,” she says, “Put on the white teddies that you wore last time.”
I sigh, then I kick off my shoes strip down completely. I put on a pair of white panties, white pantyhose and, after a couple of minutes of searching, the white teddies. Then I step into the dress again and turn my back to Sandra
“Anyway, what are you being so surly about?” she says, finally zipping up the dress, “This was your own idea.”
“I said I’d wear your clothes,” I mutter, “I never said anything about wearing lingerie or heels.”
“Lingerie has sizes, too,” she replies, “I got too large for a lot of things. Even pantyhose can get too small, you know.”
It’s a weak argument, because I’m fairly certain that a lot of the lingerie I’ve been wearing could return to her rotation, but I let it pass. I have a stronger one anyhow.
“What about the shoes, then?” I ask.
“Please don’t tell me we’re getting into this again,” she says, “I bought the shoes for you so that you don’t ruin my nylons walking barefoot.”
“Five pairs, Sandra,” I say, “And anyway, if all you are worried about are your nylons, why can’t I wear my own shoes?”
“Well that would just look plain silly,” she says, “If you’re going to wear my clothes, at least do it properly.”
“Whatever,” I scoff, but I put on my white pumps anyway.
“Where the hell’ve you been?” Sandra asks, putting down her gym bag.
“I’ve had a rough day,” I say, sitting up on the couch.
“Rough days don’t build muscles, pumping iron does,” she retorts, “This is the second time this week you didn’t go to the gym.”
“I’d go there more often if I could wear my own gym clothes,” I say weakly.
“Oh no,” she says, “You’ve lost a bet and I’m not going to let you back down on it.”
“First of all, I didn’t want to bet in the first place, you and your gang of friends forced me into it,” I say, “As if it’s not bad enough that everyone in the gym now knows Jennifer lifts more than me, I have to wear your leotard. Well excuse me if I don’t enjoy that humiliation.”
“The biggest humiliation comes from failing,” she quotes one of Leanne’s motivational one liners, “And anyhow, you only have to wear the leotard until you lift as much as she did when she beat you. That’s only what, five pounds away?”
“Well, I think I’ll pass,” I say, “I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what?” she scoffs and leaves the room before I can answer.
She’s back a couple of minutes later, wearing a pale pink silk evening dress.
“Going somewhere?” I ask.
“How does this dress fit me?” she asks, ignoring my question.
“Fine,” I say, “Why?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit too tight?” she asks.
“Maybe around the shoulders,” I shrug, “Though as long as you can zip it all the way up, it’s OK, I suppose. As long as you don’t flex too much.”
“It’s getting tighter each time I try it on,” she says, “It’s only a matter of time before I can’t wear it anymore.”
“Well, then, maybe cut back on the gym,” I suggest.
Once again, she ignores what I’m saying.
“I bet it would still fit you,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, quietly.
“Let’s find out,” she says, turning her back towards me.
Of course the dress would fit me as I am slimmer than her, well, less muscular, but that is precisely why I don’t want to argue my point, because I don’t want to be reminded that my wife has become more muscular than me, and anyway, she’s probably still mad at me for not going to the gym today.
“Just the dress or do I have to …” I say as I pull down the zipper, not really wanting to finish my sentence.
She silently beckons to the bedroom. Obediently, I take her dress and leave the room. In the bedroom closet, I quickly rummage the drawers until I find a set of pink lingerie with a full slip, pearly white nylon stockings and a pair of white pumps with a three inch heel, then I start to change. Just before I’m ready to leave the room, I suddenly stop, and go back to put on a minimal amount of makeup.
“Fits you better than me, just like I thought it would,” Sandra says when I come back to the living room.
I don’t say anything, hoping this will be over soon.
“If you think wearing my leotard is embarrassing, how would you like it if your friends at the gym saw you dressed like that?” she says.
“Please, Sandra, stop teasing,” I say.
“Oh, I’m not teasing,” she says, “I mean it.”
“What?” I ask, dumfounded.
“I’m serious. As soon as this dress no longer fits me you’ll wear it as long as it fits you, so better start bulking up,” she says.
“Come on, Sandra,” I say, but she ignores me.
“As a matter of fact, let’s go see if there’s anything in the closet that I’ve already grown out of,” she says, getting up.
“But that’s just for around the house, right?” I say, tethering behind her on my high heels.
“Whatever,” she says dismissively.