So last night, Dan and I are sitting at the kitchen table, eating a substantive serving of whole wheat capellini, tomato sauce and Byerly's label freshly grated parmesan, and I was telling him in a very the-world-and-Weight-Watchers-has-beaten-me-down tone of voice that sure, I was eating healthier, and yeah, my snacks were things like almonds and dried fruit, and that okay, I was walking almost every day, and so on and so forth, but that I still missed being a skinny smoker, and I would never deny that.
Trying not to sound ridiculously melodramatic, however, I weakly pointed out that I was not, in fact, a smoker anymore, and that I was still fairly proud of that, whoop de frickin' do.
Now you know guys. You know how sometimes, they just aren't sure what to say or do when they sense their partner is trapped in the suckage of a pity whirlpool. So what do they do? Usually, they start hitting the facts. The numbers. Pointing out the non-emotion related things that are supposed to make you feel good, instead of just saying, "OH, honey. I KNOW!"
Now first, a little back story before I continue: Dan is convinced he will outlive me. And rarely, if ever, do I challenge him on this fact. His grandmother is 96. Her sister lived to be older than that, and her other sister is still alive. He has longevity in his genes. We often imagine him moving to a loft in downtown St. Paul, living the hipster lifestyle as only an 80-plus year old man can, and very likely, having an endless stream of hot 70-year-old chicks at his disposal.
I mean, afterall… he IS really charming.
So there I am, in my melancholic stupor, and Dan is pointing out that YES, eating almonds and dried fruit is WAY better than potato chips, or loaves of french bread, and that the walking is doing wonders for my ass, and that the not smoking thing is absolutely HUGE as far as my health and longevity go.
And then, sweetly, with glistening eyes, he says: I only want to outlive you by one day.
God, I have no idea why or how, but this man really seems to like me.
And with that out of the way, I would like to present my new official rule on self-portraits:
they MUST include a toilet.
Have a great weekend.