Bacon is winning

Gregg and I continue our race to the bacon-laden finish, to see who will win which title in Fat Spouse and Hot Spouse Go on Vacation sweepstakes. Both of us are vying for the former title, since it's just so much easier to slam a block of cheese with a mayo chaser than it is to jog up our steep hill or lift our ever-expanding butts off the couch. The 15-hour workdays with brief toilet cheering breaks really aren't helping, nor is the backlog of The Riches and the extreme heat of the week. We may end up in a dead tie, and I'll just hope that a few weeks or months in Guatemala, with its inherent food and parasite dangers, will help me reach some newly svelte low, since fat + 90 degree weather = discomfort and sticking in bad places.

Each and every night I wake up at 2am to go through my list of current anxieties: "Where will I live in Guatemala? Will Shawn Joaquin ever not think it's funny to poop in his pants while at a restaurant? Where is my expense check? What is Madelena going to feel when she's put in my arms and removed from those of the only mother she's ever known? Who ate all the salami I hid in the back of the fridge? Why is my underwear so tight? When will my Volvo key fob ever be fixed so I can stop leaving SJ on the curb while I dash around to open the driver's door manually, leaving him vulnerable to Montclair kidnappers? Is it really possible to have cellulite THERE? Is tomorrow a 12-hour workday or a 10-hour workday? Is that a mosquito bite or a toast crumb stuck on my ass?" Nowhere on this list is "how will I look in a bikini in Mexico?” a vast improvement over past weeks when I was eating ice chips and pretending that carbs were the devil’s food. Now when I awake at 2am it's time for peanut butter toast and milk and my DVR'd episodes of The Office.

My beautiful daughter will never be tall and svelte or be mistaken for some waifish model. She will small and curvy and round and have breasts and hips and thighs. I'm glad she will not stand next to some bony-assed mom, but will have a bit more of role model who — after two decades of thinking thin and worrying about sizes — is finally learning to embrace the body that has taken her on many adventures, climbed mountains and rocks, swam in the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic and the Pacific, hiked above the treeline, learned to surf in a day, bombed down snowy slopes on long, scary skis, built brick patios and walls and gardens and gates. Not a stick figure fatigued by lifting up that heavy glass of ice and water with lemon, but a strong, healthy, curvy body that will never be mistaken for a 12-year old boy or a heroin addict.

So pass me that pasta — trust me, I’m eating for two.