Scott came out of the bathroom with a self-satisfied look this morning.
I knew what that look meant.
"I've lost five pounds," he said flashing that famous porn smile.
"Go fuck yourself," I said as I sipped my 90 calorie vanilla almond latte.
This is what bugs me about men.
You promise a man that you will have sex with him one day a week for every 10 pounds of weight he loses and all of a sudden all that beer melts off his belly like ice cream on a sticky toddler.
We just started this diet on Monday and today is Thursday.
He's lost five pounds. I've gained one.
By the weekend, we'll be doing the hibbidy-dibbidy at least once.
God kill me know.
It's not that I dislike sex. I just dislike sex wearing neon panties and looking like Rebel Wilson. You know the British foul-mouthed three-hundred pounder who's all over the place waving her flabby arms in the air and wearing a thong?
You've rented Bridesmaids as many times as I did.
I know you've seen her.
You said: "Hey, that girl looks just like Rose only twenty years younger."
Yeah, go fuck yourself, too.
Seriously? I was sort of hoping that the fat would melt off both of us at once.
But it never friggin' happens that way.
It takes me a year and a half to lose 10 pounds and one ill-conceived weekend at a smokey hotel in Ste. Hyacinthe for my regime to go straight into the crapper.
And all I had was one lousy carton of poutine and a bag of wine.
Scott loses weight like someone who's layering clothing on a wickedly hot summer day.
He gains it back as well, but only after two years, a keg-a-day beer habit and several vats worth of single malt chased by five pound bags of potatoes with a side order of beef ribs.
You women out there, you with the underactive thyroids, stretch marks from yo-yo dieting and three baby-bladders. You know what I'm talking about.
We give hipsters a bad name.
But still, we keep trying.
This whole sex thing has Scott pumped.
He's counting calories and has actually installed a calorie app on his Smartphone where his World of Warcraft versus Gods of Laserquest app used to be.
This morning, he was measuring and questioning every morsel he packed into his little Bavaria beer lunch bag to be sure he didn't go over his allotment of nuts.
He also re-signed up at the gym I'VE BEEN GOING TO FOR TWO YEARS WHILE HE PLAYED VIDEO GAMES.
Scott's a man on a mission and I'm the God Damned Apollo spacecraft.
I'm having nightmares, I tell you.
Pretty soon he'll be Charlie Sheen crazy, looking like Rob Lowe with his shirt off. He'll be inviting all the crack whores in the neighborhood over to do a bit of twerking to Robin Thicke, (who has no business twerking with Disney Princesses by the way!!)
Somebody, call his mom!
Blurred Lines, I'll show you a blurred line -- it's between me and the refrigerator right now.
Meanwhile, I'm eating rabbit food and channeling Roseanne Barr.
Seriously, Scott is a sweet man, and I project too much.
All he said was "I lost five pounds" and it's time for me to go on Dr. Phil.
"Dr. Phil, I have an eating disorder. Every time I think of eating pancakes, the waiter brings me dis order of lettuce hold the dressing."