GRIN # 43
I’m married to a really athletic guy—a why-drive-your-car-to-the-beach-when-you-can-ride-your-bike kind of guy. And I don’t mean ride it to the beach when you’re at the beach. I mean ride it to Wilmington NC from Raleigh–120 miles. Yeah. Certifiable.
Anyway, he’s great and all of that, but it’s really hard to get kudos for a great workout because my great workout is his mediocre warm-up.
He’s not braggy or condescending. I could eat a whole pizza by myself and he wouldn’t say anything. Which is why we’re still married.
The other night we were in bed watching the Olympics while Tyler took a shower. I had my leg draped across him, and I felt a big growth on his hip.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That thing,” I said, poking it. “You better get that checked out. It’s like a tumor.”
“Are you blind? Here!” I said, jabbing the tumor.
“It’s muscle, stupe.” As in “stupid.” We say it lovingly though. Really.
Apparently, your thigh muscle goes all the way to your hip and that big growth was the top of his muscle. Who knew?
Jerry is like one of those skeletons they use in medical school with all the nerves and muscles in all the right places and you can see everything just so. That’s exactly what he looks like. You don’t ever see blobs of fat hanging from a skeleton like you would a real person. But he HAD to have fat somewhere.
Thus, my game was born: Find the fat on daddy.
Tyler got out of the shower, and we looked and looked and couldn’t find any.
“What about here, Mom?” Tyler asked, pinching the skin around Jerry’s waist.
“Nope. Just skin.”
He picked up Jerry’s hand.
“You’re definitely not going to find any in the hand, T.” Rookie.
Tyler smacked Jerry’s belly. It barely moved.
Then my own son turned on me.
“Mom! What about you?”
Jerry started laughing.
“Look, you’ve got it here, and here, and here.”
It’s all fun and games til you get a taste of your own medicine.
“STOP! Game over! Time for bed.”
And we haven’t played since.
I’m a sore winner.