The awful hardship of living with a fitness fiend

Most of us try to live a healthy lifestyle at least some of the time.  The average person – I’m talking those who aren’t already health buffs – toss in a jog, or squeeze in some pushups, or pop into the gym at least occasionally, if only to prove to the frustratingly fit girl at the front counter that the $60/month membership fee isn’t entirely going to waste.

I pride myself on the days I do well (5 km run, sweaty yoga session, 12 pushups), and tend not to stress the days I do less well (two chocolate bars, half a loaf of fresh baked bread slathered with butter, icing out of the can).  I’ll admit I’m one of the more-or-less lucky ones who can boast a decently fast metabolism and ability to eat a fair bit of crap without having to buy a new wardrobe. (I am honestly, emphatically grateful that when I do put on weight, it’s in places that don’t affect my pant size. Like I said – lucky!)

Assuming that at least some of my readers are in a similar boat, maybe you can also commiserate with the terrible, teeth-grinding experience that is living with a partner who has taken up the Mantle of Health in the most confident, self-controlled, obnoxious way possible.

My S.O., having recently decided that making me pick up dog poo and send him lives on Candy Crush was insufficient punishment for my various disappointments, chose to refocus his efforts on a new, less obvious mode of retribution: he gave up junk food completely and dedicated himself to a rigorous training schedule intended to prepare him for a marathon.

How selfish is that?

I was supportive to begin with. Hell, I thought, maybe this will encourage me to cut back, too. But by day two of watching him religiously utilize a calorie counter that allows you to scan barcodes of the food ingested, I was jonseing for a Caramilk something fierce.  Needless to say, I gave in.

That’s when it all went downhill.  Talk about baiting the bear. I might as well have been waving a dime bag around in front of a newly clean drug addict.  The moans, the salivation, the longing looks that were once reserved for me when I looked particularly damn good … In a matter of hours, I went from a carefree snacker to a meticulous sneaker, hoarding Skittles under my side of the mattress and eating entire boxes of ice cream sandwiches in single sittings just so that beleaguered gaze wouldn’t be glued to my most recent indiscretion.

I might be exaggerating a little.

But in all seriousness, it is real heartbreak that faces the partner scorned – or more precisely the partner facing the scorn of the broccoli-frying, brown rice-boiling leper that used to be their boyfriend.  How quickly those spinach-scented saints forget the missteps of their past – late-night potato chip benders and full pizza pig outs – and leap to the judgment of their chocolate-smeared housemates.

Alas. All that’s left is hiding under the covers with a bag of Ruffles Sour Cream n’ Onion and a Slurpee.

Or jogging. I guess I could go jogging.

 

mouth full

 

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