My husband recently dropped 40 pounds. He basically skipped breakfast for a few days.
As someone who has lost and gained the same 15 pounds multiple times over the last decade, I am a bit jealous. Joe looks incredible. His bright blue eyes stand out all the more. The boy band cheekbones from his high school years are back in play.
When we go out, waitresses take a second look.
And he’s still got the whole Chicago firefighter thing going for him.
As a haggard hockey mom with the accompanying floppy belly and minimal interest in fashion or a decent haircut, I started worrying about Joe making a move.
Was he gunning for a trophy wife?
In a paranoid fit, I researched the signs. Fortunately, they weren’t there.
Joe is still wearing his too-big jeans from 2005. He asked if I could order him a hole-puncher for his loose belt on Amazon.
It hasn’t occurred to him to just purchase a new belt. Or new jeans.
In my heart of hearts, I know Joe lost the weight for health reasons. He is a devoted family man who saves his harshest words for men who walk away from their families in search of something “better.” He laughs when he tells stories about his own father who only found people attractive when there was a depth of spirit.
It didn’t matter if a person had Pinocchio’s nose or Dumbo’s ears. Where good existed, that is where beauty could be found.
So despite my wobbly stomach and Great Clips haircut, Joe still tells me I’m pretty.
Committing to one person for the rest of your life is definitely a gamble. People change. A long time ago, Joe married a young, thin woman with a good job who never, ever swore.
May she rest in peace.
I married a husky southsider who told me he was going to be a fireman one day.
Three kids and fourteen years later, the twists and turns of these years have resulted in a few bumps and crashes along the way. Still, we keep our seatbelts on and navigate towards the next great adventure.
But mine now includes one with a ripped husband.
Marianne for the win.