"You might want to ease up on the desserts for a while, Mo. Looks like you're getting a bit of a gut," Scott says as he eases his way up from the couch. He pauses to gently pat my stomach and plant a quick kiss on my forehead. "Maybe try going for a run in the morning. Love you. G' night."
"Love you too. Good night." I'm burning up inside as I say it.
A little while later, I'm standing on the scale after I've taken my shower. Scott expects a report of my nightly weigh-in, and I'm not going to deny him it, as badly as I may want to do so. Looking over my entries from the past few weeks, one thing becomes clear: I have not, in fact, gained weight. If anything, I've likely lost a few pounds from a combination of disgust and his constant nudging-aside of food he considers too fattening for me.
Watching him over time has taught me a number of things. For one, he's not the type to say no to dessert. Yet, when he sees me walk by with so much as a peppermint, he quietly orders me to spit it out. We wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of his parents, now, would we? And God forbid he be denied that extra stick of beef jerky he gnaws on as an appertif. Wouldn't even dream of it,
I sigh as I climb into bed and get under the covers. Tying my bathrobe tighter around my waist, I know I'll be fighting the same battle all over again tomorrow.
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