There are any number of conversations I intentionally avoid having with my wife. Primary among them are any that pertain to her ass. Because let’s face it, that’s a bad situation waiting to happen. Here’s the deal, though. My wife is 5 feet 2 inches and weighs (when not pregnant) a buck o’ five soaking wet. She routinely (and inadvertently) draws the ire of many a woman for her petite, fit frame. Not only did she totally regain her figure after having the triplets, she regained it in within the timeframe one could reasonably expect to recover from the flu.
But, sadly, she’s not aware of how incredible her body is. That’s not to say she’s one of these types who constantly thinks she’s fat, mind you. She realizes that in the grand scheme of things she’s just fine. Still, best to avoid answering any questions that begin with Does my ass. Especially when she’s pregnant. So when I got one such question yesterday, I nearly fainted.
“Tell me the truth,” she began while atop the scale in the middle of her daily weigh-in. “Does my ass look fat?”
Houston, we have a problem.
“Honey,” I began, “gimme a break. NO. Your ass doesn’t look fat.”
“How does it not look fat?” she asked angrily. “Do you realize that I’m gaining half a pound each and every day?”
“That’s like 15 a month. Not that big of a deal.”
“Not that big of a deal?” she asked indignantly as she stepped off the scale. “I have FIVE months left in this pregnancy. That’s SIXTY pounds.”
“Actually, it’s 75,” I pointed out, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
“Ahhhhg!” she screamed as she walked away.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked while scurrying behind her as she made her way to the kitchen (of all places). “Even if you were to gain 60 pounds, lot’s of people gain 60 pounds. Just the other day, Ceridwen wrote a post about Jennifer Hudon losing 80 pounds after her pregnancy. She went from a size 16 to 6.”
“Are you saying I’m a 16?” That little vein in her neck was popping out.
“No, honey. I’m saying that even if you were to gain half a pound per day, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
“Really,” she replied while reaching in the “utility” drawer for a calculator. “I’m no math major,” she began as she frantically worked the small red buttons, “but my initial calculations tell me that if I gain half a pound per day during a 40-week pregnancy, I will have gained 140 pounds by the time ol’ Junior is born.”
“Honey,” I began—
“I’m not done yet,” she interrupted. “Let’s see, carry your one, oh, there we have it. I’ll weigh 250 pounds on the joyous day. Can’t wait to see that baby picture. Only you won’t see any baby. Just MY ASS.”
Okay, y’all. I’m pretty good with words, but you’d never have known it from the look on my face yesterday morning. So I did what any wise man would have done. I dropped it. As quickly as Caroline will eventually drop the baby weight about which she’s currently bitching. And if she weren’t hopped up on legendary amounts of hormones, she’d probably be able to admit as much. For now, though? I think it’s best if I just leave the subject alone. Which was was my intent all along.
After all, I’m not the one who brought it up.
So, tell me, ladies. What should I have done? And fellas, any similar experiences out there? I’m all “ears.”