Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~~WG, Both - Watching an old rerun brings about an intriguing idea with interesting results
Something was wrong. Jake had merely picked at his dinner and, with a small sigh, folded his napkin and given his plate a little push away.
Babes? I said.
He looked up and made a face.
I thought he would say, Im not hungry, or I had a late lunch or that something was bothering him at work. Instead, he said:
I need to cut back. Im putting on weight. He patted his middle.
You are not, I said automatically. Id always fought my pudge, but Jake was well built, with a trim waist which a morning workout kept that way.
He stood up. I am. Look. If I looked, I could see that his pants pockets gapped just a tiny bit. Maybe his waistband hugged that flat waist a teeny bit more closely, but honestly, I couldnt tell. I could tell, though, that this would be a waste of words.
Whatever. I held my tongue and cleared the table. Jake made good money as a biomedical researcher; I worked part-time in an elementary school as a reading resource provider, which meant I was at work only from 9 to 2, four days a week. That suited me fine, because I had a big streak of home ec in my makeup, and it was important to me that I make a nice dinner for my sweetie every night. Tonight it had been pork chops, garlic-dill mashed potatoes, and grilled zucchini with bell peppers. Id also made brownies, but it looked as though Jake wouldnt want any.
I made a mental note to go up a size when I went shopping. Jake was ridiculously intelligent a B.S. from Brandeis, an M.D./Ph.D. from Princeton, and an I.Q. somewhere in the neighborhood of 175 but a complete doofus when it came to how to dress himself. Hed wear ancient T shirts, textile mill-outlet store sweatshirts, heavy and stiff, and blue jeans if left to his own devices. His job had enough of a dress code that he had to wear khakis or better and polo shirts so he wore 12-year-old khakis with thin spots in the knees and polo shirts that he might have bought sometime in the Reagan administration. Bush I, on a good day.
When wed started sharing an apartment it had started as an ad for a roommate Id eventually wound up buying his clothes, so now he wore slightly nicer polos and khakis, and they at least dated from the Bush II administration.
Later that night, Jake asleep beside me, I channel-surfed. I couldnt sleep, but the next day was a Saturday, so I didnt worry. I happened on a rerun of M*A*S*H. Hawkeye and B.J. were pranking Major Winchester: first they swapped his uniform for one far too loose, so that he was convinced that hed dropped a ton of weight. They watched as he stuffed himself in the mess tent, then substituted a uniform far too tight. It was a moronic premise, but as always, the dialogue and delivery kept me watching.
It was the germ of an idea. A brilliant idea. Satisfied at last, my brain switched off and I drifted into slumber.
The next day, running errands, I popped into a good secondhand store and bought several polos and several pairs of khakis not a size larger, as Jake had claimed to need, but several sizes larger. Hee! It was awfully hard to keep from grinning my face off as I weeded out the oldest of his khakis and polos and put the new purchases in his closet.
Bingo. Monday morning, Jake bellowed from the closet. Rachel!
Mf? I padded out, toothbrush in my mouth.
What the heck! He was standing there, displaying his gorgeous chest, and tugging at the waistband of 36-waist khakis, which swam on his 31-inch waist. Ive been putting on weight, I know I have. Those pants I wore Friday were pinching me all day. He raised an eyebrow. What size are these?
Mfwrtgsz, I replied around the toothbrush, and padded back into the bathroom. If I was lucky, Jake wouldnt pursue it.
I was lucky. He was running late. He threaded in a belt hed bought once by mistake that was too long, and threw on one of the new polos, which was also too roomy.
I was impatient all day long. I made sausage with peppers and onions over rice, with sides of pinto beans and cornbread.
Jake came to the table shaking his head. I dont know whats going on, he muttered. Scale says Im at 190, thats up six pounds since Thanksgiving, but these pants are falling off me.
Duh. Id forgotten the scale. Oh, well. That was an easy enough fix.
Now he eyed his plate. I dont know how hungry I am. Some of us went to City Deli and I had a big sandwich and those homemade chips. Then he dug in.
I kept my conversation noncommittal and my eyes mostly on my plate. Jake had two big platefuls, loosening that belt afterward, by the way, and after Id done the dishes, when I offered him a couple of fresh blondies, he took them.
The next morning, Jake again stepped on the scale. 179, it read.
What the heck! Jake picked it up, made sure it hadnt gotten wet, whacked it on the side, and set it back down. He stepped on again. 178.8.
This is nuts, he muttered. I could swear Ive been gaining weight, but now the scale says Ive lost more than ten pounds. He dropped his towel and frowned at his reflection. Do I look fat to you?
Nope. I hugged him from behind.
Jake glared some more, then, shaking his head, moved to the closet.
It couldnt be that easy. Major Winchester on M*A*S*H was a doctor, and no dummy, but hed been fooled. And Jake was absolutely anything but a dummy. Was I fooling him? Really?
I.q.
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
Something was wrong. Jake had merely picked at his dinner and, with a small sigh, folded his napkin and given his plate a little push away.
Babes? I said.
He looked up and made a face.
I thought he would say, Im not hungry, or I had a late lunch or that something was bothering him at work. Instead, he said:
I need to cut back. Im putting on weight. He patted his middle.
You are not, I said automatically. Id always fought my pudge, but Jake was well built, with a trim waist which a morning workout kept that way.
He stood up. I am. Look. If I looked, I could see that his pants pockets gapped just a tiny bit. Maybe his waistband hugged that flat waist a teeny bit more closely, but honestly, I couldnt tell. I could tell, though, that this would be a waste of words.
Whatever. I held my tongue and cleared the table. Jake made good money as a biomedical researcher; I worked part-time in an elementary school as a reading resource provider, which meant I was at work only from 9 to 2, four days a week. That suited me fine, because I had a big streak of home ec in my makeup, and it was important to me that I make a nice dinner for my sweetie every night. Tonight it had been pork chops, garlic-dill mashed potatoes, and grilled zucchini with bell peppers. Id also made brownies, but it looked as though Jake wouldnt want any.
I made a mental note to go up a size when I went shopping. Jake was ridiculously intelligent a B.S. from Brandeis, an M.D./Ph.D. from Princeton, and an I.Q. somewhere in the neighborhood of 175 but a complete doofus when it came to how to dress himself. Hed wear ancient T shirts, textile mill-outlet store sweatshirts, heavy and stiff, and blue jeans if left to his own devices. His job had enough of a dress code that he had to wear khakis or better and polo shirts so he wore 12-year-old khakis with thin spots in the knees and polo shirts that he might have bought sometime in the Reagan administration. Bush I, on a good day.
When wed started sharing an apartment it had started as an ad for a roommate Id eventually wound up buying his clothes, so now he wore slightly nicer polos and khakis, and they at least dated from the Bush II administration.
Later that night, Jake asleep beside me, I channel-surfed. I couldnt sleep, but the next day was a Saturday, so I didnt worry. I happened on a rerun of M*A*S*H. Hawkeye and B.J. were pranking Major Winchester: first they swapped his uniform for one far too loose, so that he was convinced that hed dropped a ton of weight. They watched as he stuffed himself in the mess tent, then substituted a uniform far too tight. It was a moronic premise, but as always, the dialogue and delivery kept me watching.
It was the germ of an idea. A brilliant idea. Satisfied at last, my brain switched off and I drifted into slumber.
The next day, running errands, I popped into a good secondhand store and bought several polos and several pairs of khakis not a size larger, as Jake had claimed to need, but several sizes larger. Hee! It was awfully hard to keep from grinning my face off as I weeded out the oldest of his khakis and polos and put the new purchases in his closet.
Bingo. Monday morning, Jake bellowed from the closet. Rachel!
Mf? I padded out, toothbrush in my mouth.
What the heck! He was standing there, displaying his gorgeous chest, and tugging at the waistband of 36-waist khakis, which swam on his 31-inch waist. Ive been putting on weight, I know I have. Those pants I wore Friday were pinching me all day. He raised an eyebrow. What size are these?
Mfwrtgsz, I replied around the toothbrush, and padded back into the bathroom. If I was lucky, Jake wouldnt pursue it.
I was lucky. He was running late. He threaded in a belt hed bought once by mistake that was too long, and threw on one of the new polos, which was also too roomy.
I was impatient all day long. I made sausage with peppers and onions over rice, with sides of pinto beans and cornbread.
Jake came to the table shaking his head. I dont know whats going on, he muttered. Scale says Im at 190, thats up six pounds since Thanksgiving, but these pants are falling off me.
Duh. Id forgotten the scale. Oh, well. That was an easy enough fix.
Now he eyed his plate. I dont know how hungry I am. Some of us went to City Deli and I had a big sandwich and those homemade chips. Then he dug in.
I kept my conversation noncommittal and my eyes mostly on my plate. Jake had two big platefuls, loosening that belt afterward, by the way, and after Id done the dishes, when I offered him a couple of fresh blondies, he took them.
The next morning, Jake again stepped on the scale. 179, it read.
What the heck! Jake picked it up, made sure it hadnt gotten wet, whacked it on the side, and set it back down. He stepped on again. 178.8.
This is nuts, he muttered. I could swear Ive been gaining weight, but now the scale says Ive lost more than ten pounds. He dropped his towel and frowned at his reflection. Do I look fat to you?
Nope. I hugged him from behind.
Jake glared some more, then, shaking his head, moved to the closet.
It couldnt be that easy. Major Winchester on M*A*S*H was a doctor, and no dummy, but hed been fooled. And Jake was absolutely anything but a dummy. Was I fooling him? Really?
