The Kid is walking around the house crying as I type this. She went from lying on the floor to walking to now staring out of a window, all the while crying. And now she’s turning off all of the Christmas lights. This is great.
Why, you may ask, am I sitting here typing something while my child is crying? Simple. The Wife told The Kid that she could not have potato chips for breakfast.
Symbolically, this is the end of the gluttonous Thanksgiving week. Turkey? Sure. Pizza? Absolutely! Chicken wings and beer? You didn’t even have to ask.
(Now The Kid is rummaging through cabinets in the dining room looking for “a snack.” This is spectacular. She’s lost her mind.)
After every holiday, The Wife declares that we are going to start eating healthy again and that she wants to go to the gym. Never mind that we were not eating particularly healthy before the holiday and that her gym is open 24 hours a day.
(The crying has moved to the kitchen, where The Kid now has “a snack” and is attempting to extract an episode of Sesame Street from her primary captor, The Wife.)
As it is December 1 — HOLY SHIT IT’S DECEMBER ALREADY — we have about 20 calendar days until the next extended buffet approaches. Between the plates of cookies that arrive at work, the annual holiday dinner out with The Wife, an endless stream of post-work, weekend and celebratory alcohol, and, of course, the two-day consumption marathon surround the birth of our Lord and savior, the idea of eating healthy and going to the gym is really a ruse. It’s an attempt to hoard unused calories like Weight Watchers points so that you can jam as many cookies in your craw as possible.
(I’ve now moved to the kitchen, where a happy version of The Kid is eating quietly, so The Wife can get dressed.)
It’s obesity in the name of family. It’s eating in honor of the season.
And it’s okay.
Jesus wants you to eat those cookies.
(The Kid has returned to her normal happy, chatty state. Start to finish…20 minutes.)