I used to be a bit bummed that I couldn’t wrap my arms around my husband‘s middle. I’d try, but my fingers…just…couldn’t…quite…reach.
“Stop eating Lolly Gobble Bliss Bombs while you’re at work,” I’d yell and stomp away. Sometimes I’d try and play the kid-card. “You need to lose weight for the kids. They need you around for a long time. Think about the children!”
He’s been trying to lose his gut in earnest for the past six months but it’s a case of two steps forward and three steps back. I see that he is trying so I’ve chosen to back off. I don’t love him any less, I just wish he could do is belt up around his middle instead of pulling it down so that it rests underneath his gut.
“See hon, I’m still using the same belt I used to use in my twenties. Yay me.”
Well, he didn’t actually say, “Yay me” but that was the implication.
Then, this morning, I received an early Christmas present in the form of a study that has found men with bigger bellies make better lovers. This must be one of those studies researchers do to have a break from researching cures for cancer because I don’t suppose it is really necessary. However it’s made me a bit happier to know this because that means my husband must be a XXXL lover. That’s his shirt size. I used to hide this fact, snipping those little clothing tags off but now I feel quite proud of it. I want to sew them on the outside of his shirts.
I always knew there was a reason why I was never interested in seeing the Magic Mike movies. This scene from the movie is not hot at all.