Being happily married is somewhat akin to the condition of a patient in good recovery at an Alpine sanatarium for TB. You become fleshy and rosy, lazy and content. It’s a very Rococo ideal. Which is maybe why I lately feel like a buxom figurine. I keep thinking back to the starving times (2002-2004) when I literally had just enough cash for a subway ride or a container of fruit from the deli, and so I was either walking and able to afford a light snack or going out somewhere anticipating free food with the booze provided. I was skinny and miserable.

Now that we’re all “married” and “earning a decent living” we have dinner at least every night, and to compound the problem it is almost inevitably followed by breakfast the next morning. We have meat at least three times a week, and frankly, we could eat more if we were so inclined. We’re home alone in Mexico most of the time and food is an easy comfort.

Last night we were sitting at a bar and Malcolm reminded me that when you’re young and single and trying to hook up you keep yourself in fighting shape all of the time because you never know when a (relative) stranger is going to see you naked. This got me to thinking.

No, we’re not going elective pauper or slutting it up; we’re happy as we are in this cozy phase of life. But eating less and exercise seems a predictable and boring solution. As I see it we have three options: 1) We can solicit some kind of Mexican parasite, which would be easy enough. I know a stand in town where I could get pork of questionable origin that’s been sitting in the sun since 7 am. It would take 5 minutes and it would be delicious. 2) aversion therapy. every time I make a jack cheese/CheezIt/garlic butter quesadilla* I could have Malcolm punch me in the kidneys. I only see this becoming a problem on those rare occasions when we are not together and I have to ask the kid at Cold Stone Creamery to kick me where it counts while I enjoy my Gotta Have It Cake Batter with Reese’s cup mix in treat. 3) or we could just commit to it, go full fat. Quit physical activity altogether and pay for a professional grilled cheese/cheese steak consultant to work round the clock, rousing us at 2 and 5 in the morning to forcefeed us greasy sandwiches then massaging us like Kobe cows. These are clearly the only sensible courses of action. But I’m not deciding today.

You only get to be 31 once, married to your best friend, with time and money to eat what we want, and still feel loved and desired. Saint Augustine famously wrote, “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet.” I’m with the Bishop of Hippo, happy, healthy and satisfied.

* currently ficticious, potentially delicious

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