The wife is always dieting. Well really she's always talking about how she's dieting, refusing to come with me to get bagels and then getting drunk at 5pm and eating all the bread in the house. I suppose that counts.
But instead of making her feel better, giving her some sort of sense of control - or release with the bread? - she just whines on daily about how fat she is, how much cellulite she has. I mean first of all I didn't even know what the fuck cellulite was until she told me about. It's not like I'm sitting around looking up pictures of cellulite on people - something my wife does by the way, for unfathomable reasons. And now that I know more about cellulite than I ever thought possible, I still don't get the big deal. Meanwhile my wife was born with an innate knowledge of what cellulite is and also the belief that it is shameful.
When she's been looking at pictures of celebrities in bikinis, or God forbid US Weekly has come out with its beach bodies edition, the wife will refuse to have sex for at least a week. She won't even want to be touched, instead preferring to run the streets like a homeless animal for as long as her body can physically stand it. Then she'll come home to stand in front of the mirror, dripping sweat and squinting at her thighs.
As a bystander in the Great Cellulite Battle, I understand that there are two things which I am never to say out loud. One is that my wife may have been a fun crazy drunk in her twenties, but she was never a beauty. Fine looking sure, but she really wasn't all that much to look at, plus she dressed like a homeless person most of the time. Where is this vanity coming from? Who the fuck cares about her thigh dimples? I keep this confusion to myself.
The other thing I never say is that the running and the dieting don't affect her cellulite, not even a little.
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