Bikini vs. bacon

Gregg made an announcement last week about our upcoming vacation in Mexico. "I have determined what my persona will be," he said. "I plan to be Fat Man with a Hot Wife."

I found this concept disturbing, to say the least. The pressure is all on me, one not known for Hotness, while he can sit back and eat his fourth serving of ice cream. Well, that's not fair, since he actually sits down with the entire carton in his lap so it can really, in truth, only be called a single serving. In the meantime I am subsisting on low carb yogurt, Weight Watcher's frozen entrees with all the appeal of crushed cardboard in a red sauce, and glass after glass of crushed ice. I have had to leave behind my love of extra crispy bacon, cheese, almonds, olives and other savory foods that are ever-so delish and ever-so waist expanding.

But this need for a vacation persona is apparently one that Gregg has a long history with; a few years ago he and his sister went on a cruise, where, thanks to a hard of hearing new acquaintance, his ship-wide name became "Gary." In less than 24 hours, my relatively conservative, non-imbibing husband became the life of the party and one who was greeted with cheers of "GARY!" whenever he entered a room. He and his sister dominated the karaoke stage, toasted and cheered on by the enthusiastic patrons. Drinks appeared miraculously, phone numbers on napkins were dropped surreptitiously in his lap, men clapped him on the back whenever he entered a new scene, and both "Gary" and his sister were tearfully bid adieu at the end of the cruise.

Now, several years and missed workouts later, he has decided to embrace this new persona of the Fat Guy. Which he is not, but has recently made efforts toward with three-pound burritos and ice cream each night. He plans to sit by the pool with zinc on his nose, Hawaiian shirt on, umbrella drinks next to him, looking both amazed and grateful for the hot wife by his side. The flaw in his plan is ME, who after perusing too many Venus, Victoria Secret and even Lands End catalogs have pulled out my most conservative one-piece bathing suits, extra large terry cover ups and water wings...whatever it takes to draw attention away from the body that has betrayed me after 42 years. He is unaware of MY plan to be Fat Wife with Hot Husband, and thus that his ice cream has been replaced with sugar free ice-cream-like-product and the pizza guy has been tipped to accidentally lose his way if asked to deliver to our house. And that — in the spirit of competition — my lower office drawer is now filled with chocolate and peanut butter eggs, sesame sticks, small tins of Pringles and baked chips and other snacks that have pushed those NV Weight Pills and the exercise journal to the back of the drawer.

Ha, Gary, Gregg, whatever your name is. We have three weeks to see who will win the title of Fat Spouse. May the most corpulent win.